


The Boyfriend Experience

by anomalously



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: A lot of sex, Affection, Bipolar Ian, Confrontations, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Sex Work, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-17 17:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 121,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4674467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/pseuds/anomalously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>The Prompt:</b> Ian: sex worker (male escort, explicit videos: stripping, masturbation, etc) Mickey: client who's an avid fan who gets up the courage to hire ian for "the boyfriend experience" I saw a porn star who said she only sleeps with 1 client & it inspired me</p><p> <b>Ch. 25 Excerpt</b><br/><i>Mickey carried the pitcher of coffee over to the table, smirking at his boyfriend. Ian was shifting in his seat, no doubt trying to find a comfortable position to sit with being all bruised up. Mickey got all warm from the thought, the memory of the sting he felt when he brought his hand down against Ian’s skin.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Means To An End

**Author's Note:**

> I chose to go with the Escort angle instead of stripping or online-sex-working (probably because I've had pimping on the mind while writing A World Alone lmao). Hope that's okay. I've been real excited about this :)  
> This turned into a multi-chapter, but it won't be more then maybe 4 or 5..??
> 
> Content Warning: There's a couple slurs.

The bathroom was like a steam room when Ian got out of the shower. He wiped the mirror with his hand and sighed, leaning forward to examine the mark on his throat, a small rosebud of a bruise. He sighed and pursed his lips together, pushing his wet hair back from his face. Chris was going to throw a fucking fit.

“Told you, you can’t mark me up,” He called over his shoulder. 

A head poked out of the shower, the older face of the man creased in sympathy, “Did I? I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ian lied, forcing a pleasant smile while he shrugged.

The man’s name was Parker. Married CEO of some big marketing company. He had a thing for flirty redheads, and Ian could fit the bill. 

He saw Parker maybe once a month, twice at most. He was nice, trying to impress Ian with room service and gifts. Ian’s “regular” client list was small, but if he had to pick, Parker would probably be his second favorite. _Favorite_ was a strong word though, especially when applying to people who paid you for sex. Plus, Parker had this thing where after a while, he just annoyed the bejesus out of Ian —but of course Ian couldn't show that, had to keep playing the game.

“You sure you have to head out already? I ordered room service,” Parker asked, head popping back into the shower. 

Ian rolled his eyes again at the man’s _I’m trying to be casual about this, but I’m also trying to squeeze in a quick blow-job before my time’s up_ tone. He unwrapped the towel from around his waist, using it to dry himself off, “I would, but I’ve got a paper to write.”

Another lie. There was no paper. There wasn’t even a college to write the paper for.

“That’s too bad,” Parker said. “Envelope is on the dresser.”

“Of course it is,” Ian said under his breath to himself; he pulled on his boxers and jeans. Parker didn’t mean anything by it, but the whole “on the dresser” thing put a bad taste in his mouth, like the cash was quietly taunting Ian, _here’s your money, whore_. 

“I’ll let myself out,” he said loud enough for Parker to hear.

The shower cut off and Parker stepped out, wrapping a towel around his hips. He gave Ian a slow grin, settling up beside him at the bathroom counter. Ian gave him a look, eyebrow arching, playing the game. Arch the brow, let the eyes wander, pull a little smirk —twist the mouth from a snarl to a breathy laugh when a hand grabs at the crotch of your jeans.

Ian heard the question before it even left Parker’s mouth. He’d heard this question every fucking time he met with Parker. _Every_ fucking time.

“Still can’t get that kiss, huh?”

Ian lifted his shoulders, “You know how Chris is.”

He told clients that his boss didn't allow kissing (his _pimp_ , to be specific, but Ian rarely used the word because it seemed so harsh). This was a lie: his boss didn't care about kissing, he just didn't want his workers marked up. It was Ian who had the rule, he did not kiss clients on the mouth. Ever. No matter how loyal and regular they were.

For someone who enjoyed the hell out of kissing, this was odd for Ian, he knew. But kissing was intimate. Kissing wasn’t something he wanted to be paid for. Seemed silly on the surface… he’d fuck for money, but not kiss? Yeah, that was exactly it.  Because fucking could be wildly impersonal. But kissing? Shit, kissing was nothing _but_ personal.

Parker sighed, sliding his hand from the front of Ian’s jeans, up his abdomen, to his chest, and finally resting on his shoulder, “I suppose I’ll have to live with that.”

“I’ve heard I’m terrible at it anyway,” Ian lied, _because he was fucking good at kissing, thank_ s. “Not missing much.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Parker narrowed his eyes with a teasing smile; he dropped his hand from Ian’s shoulder, “Alright, I’ll let you go, since you’re busy tonight.”

Ian pulled his shirt on and smiled back at Parker, “Until next month?”

“Until next month,” Parker nodded.

“Can’t wait,” Ian winked, walking a couple steps backwards out of the bathroom; he gave the older man his best bedroom eyes. 

His face fell as soon as he turned around to see where the hell he was going, just needing to get the out of there before Parker annoyed him into an actual coma. Ian took the envelope of cash off of the dresser, grabbed his jacket, the new watch Parker bought him (Marc Jacobs), and closed the room door behind him on the way out.

As soon as Ian walked out of the double doors of the hotel, he lit up a cigarette and started making his way towards the black SUV parked across the street. The dark tinted passenger window rolled down, revealing a light-haired man with a scruffy goatee and sunglasses.

“Hey,” Ian greeted, leaning against his elbows on the edge of the door. He passed the envelope to Chris, making sure to keep his cigarette away from inside the car.

“You got an appointment tonight,” Chris said while he counted through the money. “Your groupie.”

Ian rolled his eyes, despite the twist in his belly, “He’s not a groupie.”

He had exactly four _regular_ “top-dollar” clients. Parker —who liked his redheads; an actor he saw a few times a year that was _deeply_ closeted, but really wasn’t fooling anyone; this thrity-something year old plastic surgeon named Anthony who he saw _whenever_ —he had a thing about being called a dirty boy and having his own underwear shoved into his mouth; and a guy named Mickey that actually wasn’t too much older than Ian. 

Mickey was special to Ian, that _might_ have skirted the line between client-attraction and actual-attraction (two very different things). Mickey was interesting, and real, and was _damn_ good looking; he was Ian’s absolute favorite client, bar none.

“Dude’s calling for your ass every damn week. He’s a groupie,” Chris snorted a laugh, holding out a handful of money.

Ian took his cut, seven-hundred dollars, and shoved it into his jacket pocket, “He’s got money to burn, why’re you complaining?”

Chris eyed him, instead of answering he sighed heavily, “Please tell me that’s not a fucking hickey on your neck.”

“Okay,” Ian responded, pressing his lips together, waiting for the lecture.

“Damnit, Ian,” Chris bit out at him, shifting the car into drive. “You can’t be seeing your clients all marked up, you know that. We are trying to sell a _fantasy_ and that doesn't include marked up twinks begging for cock.”

Ian took another pull from his cigarette, jaw clenching to keep himself from being stupid and snapping. Chris was normally a pretty cool guy, but then there were times when he was just a fucking prick. If it were anyone else, Ian wouldn't have a problem putting them in their place.

“Can I get a ride home?” Ian asked.

“Where’s your car?” 

“Home.”

Chris sighed, hitting the unlock button, “Put that shit out and hop in.”

The ride was pretty silent; Ian mostly just looked out of the car window, watching big buildings turn to fancy houses, to less fancy houses, to his neighborhood. It landed somewhere between _real shitty_ and _could be worse_. 

He could have been in a nicer apartment building, closer to downtown. He definitely made enough money for it. But the end goal was college, so he couldn't exactly see the point in blowing all his money on a nice apartment with a view, when he was hardly at home anyways.

“He’s expecting you at ten, at the hotel. Don’t be late,” Chris said as he pulled up to the apartment building.

“I’m never late, Chris,” Ian reminded him.

Chris nodded, “I’ve got shit to do tonight. Bring the money home and I’ll be come by here tomorrow morning to collect, got it? And cover that hickey up… put ice on it, _something_. You look like a damn middle-schooler.”

Ian slid out of the SUV and nodded, “Got it.”

“Ian,” Chris called before Ian shut the door; he gave him a knowing look. “I’m going to be here _early_ tomorrow morning, understand?”

“Yeah…” Ian frowned.

“You need to be here with my money.”

A grin pulled at the corner of Ian’s mouth, “I will, damn. Have I ever scammed you? No… I wouldn’t do that shit, you should know that by now.”

“I do know that,” Chris sighed, “I’m just saying, I don’t want us to have problems. You know Scott tried to pull shit with me, and he’s been laid up for the past week and a half. You’re my only ginger, gotta keep you working. So I’m just putting it out there, okay? Have all my money when I come to collect, I’m trusting you.”

Chris honestly wasn’t _that_ kind of pimp. He didn't beat on his workers to keep them in line, or just because he could. Ninety percent of the time, he acted as more of a friend than anything —in this line of work, he was the kind of boss you wanted to have; he looked after you, and he demanded respect for you, from clients. And while Chris didn’t throw threats around… he _did_ make promises. You got on his bad side, you disrespect him, it was quick and volatile. This didn't just apply to his workers, but to clients too. The guy did _not_ put up with disrespect.

Ian hadn't experienced this first hand, but he’d seen the aftermath. It wasn’t ever hospital-trip-worthy (for a reason, but Chris could _definitely_ put you in the hospital if he wanted to), but you’d be out of the job for the next couple of weeks. Which wasn't good, that’s how you lost clients and money. Good money.

Ian held two fingers up to his forehead, “Scouts honor.”

Chris barked out a laugh and shook his head, “Alright, go get pretty for your client.”

“I’m always pretty,” Ian rolled his eyes, giving his boss a wicked grin before he closed the door to the SUV.

Ian lived on the third floor, across from an old cat lady who tried to give him these truly disgusting casseroles, saying he was too skinny (he really _wasn’t_ too skinny, but that was besides the point). His apartment was little, having only what he really needed, and not much else —otherwise it would be cluttered and start stressing him out, and then that was a whole _other_ mess to deal with.

Even though he’d already showered at the hotel, he took another one, turning the water on as hot as he could stand it. 

It wasn’t that Ian necessarily _hated_ doing what he did. Sure, it made him feel dirty and used up sometimes, and some clients would look at him and treat him like a whore who wasn’t worth much more than his body. Yeah, that was the downside of it. He could get out any time he wanted. But this was how things played out for him so far in his life.

The reality: He had debt and serious medical bills to pay off, medications to pay for that were fucking expensive. Also, he was trying to get into college. A good one. So that required more money as well.

After his family found out what he was up to, found out he was a damn _escort_ , there’d been some kind of fucked up intervention because they thought he was off his meds, and slipping into that reckless, self-destructive mania. Ian _wasn’t_ off his meds, so he got pissed (mostly because they had him questioning if his behavior and choices were his own, or his bipolar —he’d just gotten on new, effective medication and felt _decent_ about himself though, so Ian figured these decisions were his and his alone). 

The intervention turned into a full-blown Gallagher family fight, directed at him, so he left. Whatever. Eventually, even though he hadn't spoken to them in months now, he would like to get them the fuck out of South Side. They were still his family and he still _loved_ them, after all. But for now, they could just mind their own fucking business.

He was _trying_ to give himself a good life. He was trying to give his family a good life, or at the very least a restart. So he had plan, and if that meant he had to get paid to fuck or get fucked, to speed up the timetable of that plan, then so be it. This was the bed he had chosen to lie in and he was going to stick it out until this part of _the plan_ was over. 

It could have been really bad, he could have gotten picked up by a pimp who smacked him around and thought he was a piece of shit. He could have still be stuck in Canaryville, working at a diner and getting nowhere in life, or some other kind of dead-end job. There _was_ an end to this, Ian could see it. 

This part of his life wasn't permanent, it was just part of his routine for now.

So he took his shower, scrubbed himself clean again, stood under the water and breathed for a few minutes, sorting himself out. Then when he got out, he took his medication, he threw on some clean sweatpants and sprawled on his bed.

He had a few hours until he had to meet Mickey, so he set his alarm and closed his eyes, making sure he was well rested for his favorite client.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So do we like this so far?
> 
> Oh, so a heads up: this story might have made more sense from Mickey's perspective, but I really got into Ian's for this, so this will be from his perspective. Just felt right, I guess. I dunno, not really important lol


	2. No Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey pulls on his cigarette, blowing the smoke away from Ian; he nods. He looks fucking sexy like that, from this angle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a ridiculously fast update, since I just posted this last night. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this chapter should have been part of chapter one. So I wanted to get this out now.

The elevator dinged when he reached the twentieth floor. Ian took a deep breath, trying to still the twisty feeling in his stomach while he made his way towards the room. He knocked, quickly smoothing down his shirt and jeans while he waited for the door to open.

Mickey was already barefoot and had a lit cigarette hanging from his lips when he answered the door. His blue eyes flicked to the mark on Ian’s neck, but he didn't say anything as he let him into the room.

It was a standard room, but it was nice. Big bed, good view of the city, huge television. But it was a smoking room, so there was that lingering smell of cigarettes; that didn't matter though, Ian _obviously_ wasn't offended by the smell.

He looked over at Mickey, who was leaning his shoulder against the wall by the dresser, watching him carefully, keeping silent. Ian stayed silent too, shrugging his jacket off and folding it over the back of a chair. It was always quiet at first, but then again they didn't really need to say anything. Like the rest of his life, this went by a routine.

There was a towel thrown in the middle of the bed; Ian grinned at it, his stomach fluttering and tensing with excitement. He’d been waiting for this shit all week and Mickey’s evident anticipation was so fucking hot.

Before walking over to Mickey, Ian put his tube of lube and a few condoms on the nightstand next to the bed. Then he plucked the cigarette directly out of Mickey’s mouth, pulling on it, blowing smoke away from the brunette’s face as he pressed his hips into Mickey’s, caging him against the wall. Mickey was a little shorter than Ian; he looked up and watched him smoke, those blue eyes still so fucking focused, his hands resting on Ian’s hips.

Ian preferred topping —if he had it his way, he’d _probably_ would have maintained only topping. But that was impossible with this life, and getting fucked wasn’t _that_ bad, so he dealt with it. 

Mickey had been coming to see Ian for about six months now. The first three times that Ian and Mickey met up, the brunette had him bent over the edge of the bed, fucking the life out of him. Ian suspects that it was Mickey’s way of seeing if he could trust Ian with such an intimate part of his life. But Mickey doesn't fuck Ian anymore, and to be honest, Ian prefers it that way. Even though Mickey was a skilled top, he really shined the most when Ian fucked him. And Ian _loved_ fucking Mickey.

“How was your day?” Ian asks, slipping the cigarette back between Mickey’s lips. His body was already reacting to Mickey, watching the way the brunette took the cigarette between those full lips. 

Mickey takes one last drag from the cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray on top of the dresser. His eyebrows work up his forehead, both hands back on Ian’s hips, “Stressful.”

“Well,” Ian takes his shirt off before he arches a brow at Mickey. He then sinks to his knees, hands working a black leather belt open. “Let’s relax you.”

It’s not hard to get hard with Mickey. With other clients, sometimes Ian has to talk himself into it, has to pretend. But with the brunette, the guy could lick his lips and Ian was ready to go. It’s where the line blurs, where Ian has brief moments where he forgets himself, forgets that at the end of their time together, he was going to head back home with a pocket full of cash for services rendered.

Future Ian could deal with that shit. Right now, he was too busy kneeling in front of Mickey, hand palming and rubbing through Mickey’s jeans, teasing him. Mickey made the best grunts and sighing noises when Ian teased him, so Ian liked to draw those out.

Sometimes Mickey wore expensive suits, and the guy could wear the _fuck_ out of a suit. But Ian always kind of just liked his casual clothes. Nice jeans and shirts that you could tell have been around for a long time. There was something endearing about the shirts; faded, sleeves cut off, or a few holes around the hem —it was weird, but it was like his clothes told a story. And Ian found himself, more often than not, wanting so badly to hear that story. 

He made slow work of undoing Mickeys jeans, peeling them down his thighs to reveal dark gray boxer-briefs. Ian gave Mickey a slow grin, watching the brunette watch him. There were quite a few things that Ian exploited when he was with Mickey. Things like the fact that Mickey liked to watch him —he’d gnaw on his bottom lip and huff out short breaths and brush his fingers through Ian’s hair. 

“Finally made the switch, huh?” Ian asked, using both hands to skim over Mickey’s covered hips and bulge. “Knew they’d look good.”

Mickey just smirked, keeping his eyes on what Ian was doing.

Ian tugged Mickey’s jeans all the way down his legs, letting the brunette step out of them. He ran his hands up the length of Mickey’s legs, massaging and paying special attention to the insides of his thighs. 

Ian was close to obsession with Mickey’s legs. He was on the stocky side, so yeah, they weren’t long and lean, but they were so _strong_ , something firm but soft to grab onto. And sensitive, Mickey had these sensitive areas on his inner thighs that Ian liked to mouth and drag his teeth across. It always got the brunette going.

Ian stood up, catching the hem of Mickey’s shirt with his fingers, pulling the piece of clothing up over his head, tossing it over with the jeans. Mickey was left standing there in his boxer-briefs and Ian’s mouth watered at the sight.

“You’re real quiet tonight,” Ian said, keeping his voice soft. He lead Mickey over to the bed. “You okay?”

Mickey nodded with a shrug, but Ian can tell something else is going on. He doesn't push Mickey though. Instead he motions for Mickey to lay on the bed while he toes out of his shoes and takes his own jeans off.

When Mickey is laid back against the pillows, Ian crawls over him, his face looming right in front of Mickey’s, thighs pressing to the backs of Mickey’s thighs, hands planted on either side of the brunette. Mickey looks so good, his tongue pushing out of his mouth to wet his lips, all that heat behind his focused eyes. 

Mickey’s got this full, fuckable mouth; his lips look so soft and Ian knows that they’re soft because he’s had them ghosting his neck and wrapped around his fingers. Ian’s wondered what kissing Mickey would be like, he’s wondered what the inside of his mouth tastes like; what those lips would feel like wrapped around his cock. And their mouths are so close, it’s maddening. The air is thick and all it would take was leaning forward a little bit and then _there_.

“Can we just, uh…” Mickey sighs, eyes flicking away from Ian. “Can we just do this?”

Ian’s ripped out of the moment so violently that he can’t _not_ wince. Mickey’s acting weird and cold, and it’s not like him at all. Normally he’s so receptive and comfortable and _vocal_ , but whatever is going on with him is seriously fucking him up. 

Mickey was probably one of Ian’s more sexually confident clients. He knew what he liked, what he didn’t, and wasn't afraid to ask for it, wasn’t afraid to soften his edges to draw it out and enjoy himself. But now he was almost acting like when he first started coming to Ian. Closed off, unsure, _uncomfortable_. What was going on with him?

“Sure,” Ian clears his throat, forcing a fast recovery. He reaches for lube and a condom under one of the pillows and sets them by Mickey’s hip.

With a little help from Mickey, Ian tugs the brunette’s underwear off and then his own. His erection’s flagged a little, but seeing Mickey hard and ready gets him going again. He settles back on his heels, between Mickey’s legs and reaches for the lube.

“Hold your hand out,” Ian says, squeezing out a little into Mickey’s palm when he did. “Touch yourself for me?”

Mickey’s hand wraps around his cock and starts slowly stroking, spreading his legs a little wider for Ian. He looks damn good doing it, too —if Ian’s erection hadn’t of already been back, it would have sprung back up with a vengeance from the sight.

“Look so good,” Ian grins, trying to ease the tension in the air.

Now, normally this would be the time when these _beautifully_ awful words would be dropping from Mickey’s mouth, but he stays quiet now —except for the harsh breathing and soft moans. So Ian slicks up a couple fingers and reaches down between him and Mickey, brushing his fingers against Mickey’s ring of nerves.

Mickey punches out a groan front he simple contact and that makes Ian grin. He teases Mickey open, rubbing and prodding gently until he can work a finger inside. Mickey arches while he jerks himself, his eyes clenching tightly together while Ian works a second finger inside, searching for that spot that makes Mickey go crazy.

“Fuck,” Mickey grunts, hand stilling on his cock. 

That’s when Ian knows that he’s gotten to that magical bundle of nerves. He presses against Mickey’s prostate a little harder, rubbing at the spot, making the brunette moan and exhale roughly under him. Ian grins wider, finally seeing little flecks of the Mickey he knows.

“That’s it,” Ian breathes, scissoring his fingers inside of Mickey, pushing in and out while his other hand starts rubbing across the brunette’s abdomen, sides and thighs. He works his fingers against Mickey’s prostate again, “Come on, Mickey, give me a little more.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Mickey gasped, his arms folding over his face, muffling the sounds he’s making. Ian can make out a strangled sounding, “Jesus fucking Christ, don’t fucking stop.”

Ian slides his hand to rest in the center of the shorter man’s chest, feeling it rise and fall deeply with every breath. He works in a third finger into Mickey, prepping him good; Ian’s shaking with anticipation. Mickey looks so fucking good when he’s overwhelmed and frustrated like that, his legs trembling on either side of Ian.

“Okay,” Mickey’s arms come down; he blindly searches for the condom next to him, ripping the foil open with his teeth. “Okay, I’m good, I’m good.”

As Ian gently slips his fingers from Mickey’s body, Mickey is sitting up to get Ian ready, rolling the condom on, getting more lube to slick over the condom, jerking Ian a few times with this fucking twist that drives Ian crazy.

Just as Ian was about to crawl on top of Mickey, the brunette sits up and turns his back to Ian on his knees, resting his elbows on the headboard. Ian tries to ignore the small pang of disappointment; he really likes watching Mickey’s face when he comes. 

Ian arches a brow, grabs the towel from behind him and spreads it out in front of Mickey. He starts pushing Mickey by the hips, making him walk on his knees further up the bed until he’s pressed against the headboard, arms braced on the wall on either side of him. 

The shorter man breathes hard, turning his head to the side, pressing his cheek to the wall as Ian settles up behind him. Ian knows Mickey likes when Ian does this, traps him somehow; whether it’s against the mattress or a wall or a counter, or over the arm of a couch, Mickey’s into it. 

Ian starts pressing into Mickey, his chest pressed snugly to his back. He nips at Mickey’s earlobe, whispering harshly, “God, this tight fucking ass.”

Mickey pushes back against him, moaning low and shuddering. Ian drops his head to bury his face in the crook of the brunette’s neck, giving one good push to bottom-out. Both of them let out a low noise and Ian feels fingers brushing into his hair.

“You good?” Ian asks, grabbing firmly at Mickey’s hips.

Mickey pushes back against him and breathes hard, “Yeah.”

He steels himself as he starts to move. Slow at first, opening Mickey up, dragging his hands up and down the brunette’s sides, fisting a hand in the back of his hair as he rocks his hips. The brunette is white hot and tight around him; he feels so fucking good, his ass pressed against Ian feels so fucking good, the heat of his skin, the smell of his skin. It’s all so fucking good.

“Fuck,” Ian gasps, mouthing at the crook of Mickey’s neck, picking up his pace. He sucks and bites at the skin there, careful not to mark him up. Mickey likes to be marked, but not where people can see. “Fuck, you take it so good, Mickey.”

Groans tear from Mickey’s belly every time Ian pushes deep inside him, “Right there, _fuck_ , right there,” he shuddered. “ _Fuck_ —yeah, just like that.”

Ian licks his lips and clenches his jaw, pistoning into Mickey at the same spot; he reaches an arm around, taking Mickey’s leaking cock in his hand, stroking him hard. 

With heavy, hot breath, Ian stills, pushing deep into Mickey, drawing out a long, low moan from him; he presses his mouth against the brunette’s ear, “Been looking forward to this all week, you know that?” He shouldn’t say those things, but he does.

“Yeah?” A little smirk cracks on Mickey’s face for a second; it thrills Ian. “Been waiting to fuck me, huh?”

“You fucking know I have,” He pulls out of Mickey completely, before pushing right back in, snapping his hips against Mickey, holding inside him deep like before; Mickey makes a loud gasping noise, fists balling up tight. “God damn, Mick, so fucking good.”

Mickey pushes back against him and makes another low noise, his whole body trembling around Ian. Ian’s body pulses with pleasure and the need to come, but he steels himself.

“Got myself off the other — _fuck_ — the other day, thinking of fucking you. So fucking good,” Ian grits through his teeth, his eyes clenching, making short, deep thrusts. It’s more shit he shouldn't be saying, but Ian let’s it happen.

Mickey groans low, his body tightening around Ian. And Ian sees fucking stars, his hips stuttering for a second before resuming their pace. Mickey keens and reaches back to grab a fistful of Ian’s hair while Ian keeps his hand stroking him, matching the pace of his thrusts.

“Shit, I’m gonna… _fuck_ ,” Mickey slams a fist against the wall, back arching against Ian.

Ian urges him on, both of them throwing each other filthy words and punched out moans. Mickey comes first, but Ian is right there after him, pushing in deep, filling up the condom. Both of them are gasping for air, not moving an inch, Ian still buried inside of Mickey. Ian presses his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, inhales his scent, drops a kiss there and slowly pulls out, causing Mickey to shudder.

Ian cleans himself up, takes the towel off the bed, cleans Mickey up. They pull on their underwear and settle back against the headboard, smoking together. It’s silent and comfortable. With any other client, Ian would be trying to get out of there as soon as possible, but he likes sitting with Mickey like this. There’s just something comforting about him.

“I uh… I got a question,” Mickey breaks the silence.

Ian looked over at him, brows raised, “Okay.”

“I gotta long weekend coming up,” he sighs. He sighs like he’s not really wanting to talk, but has to. It makes Ian frown. “And uh, fuck… shit, this is gonna sound fucking dumb.”

Ian frowns, putting his cigarette out before he crawls over, laying on his stomach between Mickey’s legs, resting his chin on his abdomen, arms hooked over his hips. Mickey raises the corner of his mouth at him and tentatively reaches down to brush his fingers through his hair. Ian leans into the touch, his eyes closing.

“No judgment, you know that,” Ian says, keeping his voice soft, rubbing a hand up and down Mickey’s sternum. Ian’s learned how to soothe guys like Mickey, and it seems to be working. “You can trust me.”

Mickey pulls on his cigarette, blowing the smoke away from Ian; he nods. He looks fucking sexy like that, from this angle. Ian can feel the brunette’s cock twitch under him and for a moment, Ian is tempted to tug his boxer-briefs off and swallow Mickey down, but he controls himself.

“Heard about this thing,” Mickey starts, sighing all long and drawn out again. “You know, the girlfriend or boyfriend experience —whatever the fuck it’s called… you know what I’m talking about?”

“I know about that, yeah.”

“Do you…” Mickey ran a hand through his own hair, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. His brows arched sharply, “Do you do that kinda shit?”

Despite this being dangerous territory for him, professionally speaking, Ian grinned, raising himself on his hands and knees, crawling up Mickey’s body. Something thrilling and electric shoots through his body and he can’t stop from grinning wider, “You want that?”

Mickey’s face dropped to a passive front as he took another drag from his cigarette before putting it out, “Been thinking about it.”

They’re in the same position as they were before they fucked, Ian looming right in front of Mickey’s face, Mickey’s eyes boring into his, his full mouth working slowly. Ian watches the way Mickey pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, dragging it back and forth in thought.

He’d been nervous to ask, Ian realizes. That’s why he was acting so weird.

“You want me to be your boyfriend for the weekend?” Ian asks, dropping his head down, brushing his lips across Mickey’s collarbone, pressing his body against Mickey.

Mickey sighed in the back of his throat, his legs bending and widening to accommodate Ian. His hands brushed Ian’s sides, playing at the elastic of his boxers, “Depends what’s on the table,” he said. 

Ian could see Mickey’s confidence curling back and that made him immensely happy, because a confident Mickey was his kind of Mickey. He pressed his mouth to the middle of Mickey’s chest, pushing his tongue against his skin, tasting him, moving upwards towards the brunette’s throat.

“We could go out somewhere,” Ian licked a long line against the crook of Mickey’s neck, moving on to his ear, “Talk about whatever you want, fuck all night, hang out, sleep together…” he rocked his hips forward, making the brunette breathe hard. “Whatever you want. I can take care of you real good.”

Mickey’s hand comes up to Ian’s face, his thumb brushing against his bottom lip and everything in Ian’s head just goes a little fuzzy for a moment. Mickey’s staring at his mouth, his blue eyes so focused, and it’s a little hard for Ian to breathe.

“And what if I wanted to take care of you?” Mickey asks.

Ian pushes down that bubble in his chest, trying to keep his _business_ head straight. He opens his mouth wider, letting Mickey’s thumb slip between his teeth. He sucks on the digit for a moment before letting it slide back out, “I definitely wouldn’t object.”

“So,” Mickey’s eyes flick all over Ian’s face, “You’d be into that?”

“I’m into anything you want,” Ian’s response is automatic and he kind of hates that.

Mickey frowns, “No… I’m asking—”

“I’m into it,” Ian says, nodding his head. “I am. I’m… very into it. I’d like that… it’d be nice, you know,” He feels his face heat up, feeling a little more exposed than he should be okay with. “You know, to spend the weekend with you,” he adds, voice a little quieter.

Mickey nods, “Yeah.”

They don’t say anything more, just stare at each other; Ian wishes he could come up with something, but his tongue feels so heavy in his mouth. The urge to kiss Mickey is too strong; Ian thinks he could probably kiss this man for hours. Days. Years. The air between them is so thick and there Mickey goes wetting his lips again. It really was too much.

He can’t remember the last time his cheeks had been this hot. Needing to mask the redness that he knows is covering his face, Ian goes back to mouthing at Mickey’s throat. This he can focus on, making Mickey feel good, reminding himself that he was the pro and Mickey was the client. The _client_.

“You uh… you busy this weekend?” Mickey asks while Ian dips to mouth and kiss at his chest.

Ian works further down, tugging at Mickey’s underwear, his mouth watering, “I think I’m all freed up. You’d have to call Chris to double check though.”

“A’ight,” Mickey pants, lifting his hips so Ian can pull his underwear off.

But then a shrill ringing cuts through the moment like a hot knife before Ian can get the damn article of clothing tugged down. It takes everything in him not to yell in frustration, and by the annoyed, pursed lipped look of Mickey, he’s in much of the same state.

Mickey slams a hand on his phone, on the nightstand, bringing it to his ear, “What?”

Ian’s frozen in place, waistband still clutched in his fingers as he watches Mickey.  The brunette doesn't move or try to get Ian off of him; he’s just listening to whatever is happening on the other end of the phone, his brows creased deeply. 

“Yeah, and what the fuck did you tell him?” Mickey asked the caller.

Just when Ian is about to slide off the bed and give Mickey some space, he feels a hand brush through the side of his hair, fingertips rubbing against his scalp. It feels good, so Ian leans into Mickey’s touch, his eyes catching Mickey’s blue ones.

“Take Joey with you,” Mickey says into the phone, still brushing his fingers through Ian’s hair. It feels so good that Ian feels his eyes drift close, getting lost in the touch. He lays his cheek on Mickey’s hip, making little circles with his fingers on the other hip.

“No,” Mickey is saying. “No, I said the corner of —fuck no. Because I’m fucking _busy_ , I’m not doing your fucking job for you.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Ian experimentally trailed his thumb over the outline of Mickey’s dick. He was still half-hard, and it really just was a shame that it was being neglected like that, while Mickey had to take his phone call. Mickey didn’t react in any way to Ian’s touch, so he did it again, this time peering up at the brunette.

Mickey still had the phone pressed to his ear, but his eyes were focused on Ian, “Yeah,” he said into the phone. His face fell, hand dropping from Ian’s hair to rub over his face. “Fine. Yeah, yeah I fucking know you’re sorry. I’ll be there. Fuck.”

Ian sighed, moving to sit up as Mickey hung up his phone, putting it back onto the nightstand, “Gotta go?”

“Yeah,” Mickey grunted.

Disappointment pulled at Ian’s gut as he rose from the bed, watching Mickey do the same. They dressed in silence; the air is kind of tense, most of it coming from the brunette. Ian can feel the annoyance and stress coming off of him in waves; he wishes he could do something, but Mickey has to go. 

Ian doesn't want him to go —he knows thats a problem, but right now he doesn't really give a shit. Besides, if his schedule is all cleared up (which he’s pretty sure it is) he’s got the whole fucking weekend with Mickey. God, the things Ian was already planning in the back of his mind, they were making his body all hot.

Mickey walks him to the room door and puts the envelope of cash into Ian’s hand, looking him in the eyes like he’s not ashamed of the transaction. It’s oddly refreshing and Ian’s always liked that Mickey’s never been the guy to leave the money on the nightstand or dresser or bathroom counter.

Ian doesn't mean to sound so damn annoying and eager when he asks, “So you’re gonna call Chris about this weekend?”

Mickey just nods, eyes flicking awake for a second; Ian can see the brunette’s cheeks flush a little pink. Fucking adorable.

“Can’t wait,” Ian murmurs when Mickey flicks his eyes back to look at him. He means it, holds eye-contact with Mickey to let him know that he means it. Ian doesn't really lie to Mickey. He probably should, but it just doesn't seem right.

The corner of Mickey’s mouth quirks upwards in a lopsided grin.

Ian grins back, opening the door, “I’ll see ya.”

“See ya,” Mickey replies with a nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ian, keep it professional smh
> 
> just kidding, don't


	3. Elephant In The Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So where’re you taking me?”
> 
> Mickey cleared his throat and grinned, “Why, you scared I’m taking you out to a middle of a field to murder you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, thank you so much for all the feedback and excitement about this!!
> 
> Let's get sexy.

Tuesday comes and goes slowly. Ian doesn't have any clients —he goes to the gym twice and runs errands, trying to keep busy. Same thing happens on Wednesday. All he can think about is the weekend, and the fact that Chris _still_ hasn't said anything about it. Maybe Mickey changed his mind. Maybe his weekend suddenly became too busy or something.

It was a problem. Ian went to sleep thinking about a weekend with Mickey. Woke up thinking about a weekend with Mickey. He wondered what he did with his days, his work, his family… all that shit. _Client_ , Ian reminded himself constantly. Mickey was a client. The worst thing that could happen was that he could get attached to a fucking client (he’s already attached, he knows this, but that's why denial is a thing).

Thursday, Ian had two separate clients —one in the afternoon, one at night. Businessmen looking for a little something extra to spice up their lives. Ian gave them the eyes, grinned at their terrible jokes, managed to get it up for them to fuck. But it’s hard to really pay attention to their rambling; he does a lot of smiling and nodding.

Friday morning, Ian’s woken up by his cell phone ringing loudly next to his head. It’s Chris, calling too damn early when he knows that Ian sleeps in when he can.

“Morning sleeping beauty,” Chris laughs into the phone.

Ian grunts some kind of noise in response, phone pressed to his ear as he pulls the blanket over his head.

“Hope you’re not busy this weekend,” Chris continues.

Ian’s eyes pop open, a grin spreading across his face, suddenly very very awake, “Why?”

Chris laughs again, “Like you don’t fucking know. Your groupie is shelling out some big bucks for your ass for the whole weekend, starting tonight. Better treat him right, he’s taking you on a little vay-cay.”

Ian shoves the blankets off of his body, “Really? He just call? Where is he taking me?” the questions just fall out of his mouth in rapid succession, knowing how ridiculous he sounds, but not able to even fucking contain himself because _Mickey is taking him somewhere?_  

“Calm down there,” Chris sighs, but Ian can hear the amusement lacing his words, “He called a couple days ago—”

“You’re just telling me now?” Ian frowned. “Really, Chris?”

“Excuse the fuck outta me for not reporting to you immediately, your highness,” his pimp snorts. “You know there’s more shit on my plate than just you, right? I got eight of you jackasses on my roster.”

Ian rolls his eyes, “I’m just saying, I could’ve been busy.”

“Fine, if you can’t do it—”

“I can do it,” Ian blurts out, immediately smacking his forehead afterwards. If he could just chill the fuck out right now, that would be _awesome_. He slows his speech down a little, taking a deep breath, “I can do it.”

“Alright, you got a pen? Write this shit down,” Chris says.

 

* * *

 

So the deal was that Ian would meet Mickey at his apartment Friday afternoon, they’d go somewhere for the weekend, coming back Monday morning. Ian was buzzing with anticipation. Where was Mickey taking him, what were they doing, what did his apartment look like? Before he got too giddy, Ian took a deep breath and locked his car, leaving it in the parking structure across the street from Mickey’s building.

It was one of those monstrous apartment buildings —maybe at that point they’d be considered _condos_ , Ian wasn’t really sure how all that shit worked. The building had a doorman —this quiet older guy with a _trying my best_ grimace. 

He adjusted his duffle bag on his shoulder and pushed the button to call the elevator, trying to shake off any nervousness. Ian had never met Mickey outside of the hotel before, had never met _any_ client outside of the hotel before. Even the couple times he’d entertained the whole _boyfriend experience_ job before had been within the confines of the hotel.

Again, he adjusts his duffle bag —mostly out of something to do while he steps inside the elevator. His medication bottles rattle around and Ian frowns; reality is slipping in. _Hey, here’s your boyfriend for the weekend, defects and all_ … he’s good at hiding the meds, but it’s the whole fact that they’re a factor in his life right now that just annoys the fuck out of him. Always making him think of his fight with Lip and Fiona, asking if he’s whoring himself out because he’s going through some bipolar shit. 

Every time he takes the meds it’s like that question pops up again, and Ian wants to scream. He’s a good fuck, a good liar, and needs the money. End of story. He’s _balanced_ , has been for a good five months. He’s _okay_. Hasn’t even touched anything stronger than marijuana in six months.

The elevator dings and stops, ripping him away from his focus. Ian pushes back the worry, putting his game-face on. He’s a sexual guy, it’s easy for him to play it up, especially with Mickey. The whole goddamn weekend. He’s _so_ ready for this.

10D. The door isn't hard to find, and Ian knocks, ignoring the flip in his stomach as it swings open moments later. 

Mickey’s on the phone, gesturing him inside. He’s in sweatpants and a white wifebeater, and he’s barefoot -Ian’s seen him casual, but not this casual before; Mickey wears it well. Truly, the man should never hide those arms. Mickey makes a motion for Ian to set his bag down anywhere, so he sets it down by the door because there was already a bag resting there.

“Five minutes,” Mickey mouths, pointing to his phone.

Ian just nods, looking around. It’s spacious, high ceilings, high windows. The walls are light, but nearly everything else is dark and expensive looking. Huge paintings hanging on the walls, streamlined furniture, area rugs covering portions of the dark wooden floor. _Damn_.

He feels a hand graze his shoulder, pulling him out of his daze. Ian looks over at Mickey (still having the phone pressed to his ear); he gives Mickey a little grin. He’s not sure how he managed to follow Mickey into the kitchen, but he did. It’s a nice kitchen, too. Dark cabinets, stainless steel appliances, one of those expensive looking knife blocks. 

“Beer?” Mickey asks.

Ian shakes his head. He can’t, otherwise Mickey’d get one _sloppy_ temporary boyfriend.

The brunette just nods, his hand sliding down Ian’s arm, to his waist, to slip into his back pocket. The move makes Ian have to gnaw on his bottom lip, letting himself be pulled against Mickey.

“That’s why I fucking said to get the money up front,” Mickey growled into the phone. His chest rumbled against Ian as he spoke. “Why’re you acting like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing?”

Mickey’s voice was rough and angry as he spoke to whoever was on the other line, but his hand was soft on Ian, pressing into his back, running up and down his spine. The contrast is doing some truly awful things to Ian’s body; tightening up, going all hot around the collar. Ian holds Mickey’s hips, slowly turning him so his back is pressed against his front.

“Yeah,” Mickey says into the phone. “Of fucking course I want you to go collect that shit. Where is your head at lately? Fuck.”

Ian dips his head down and brushes his lips against the crook of Mickey’s neck. The brunette tilts his head to the side, giving him more room. Ian presses Mickey against the island counter and continues to mouth at the skin of his neck, while Mickey continues to give short replies to whoever he’s speaking to.

He wants Mickey on this counter, in this nice ass kitchen. Mickey’s hips are at just the right height to be bent over… _yeah_. Yeah, that’s what Ian wanted. He rocks his hips forward, pressing his growing erection against Mickey’s ass as he grips his hips tighter. The anticipation over the past few days has been churning low in his belly, thinking of all the ways he wants to take Mickey, all the things he wants them to do.

“Listen, I gotta go. Don’t fucking call me this weekend,” Mickey said into the phone, his ass pushing back into Ian. “I know I already told you, but I’m dead fucking serious. Something happens, call Iggy. Yeah… yeah… okay.”

As soon as Mickey hung up his phone, Ian pushed him forward to bend over across the island. He dropped to his knees behind him, tugging at his sweatpants until that ass was out just for him. Fuck. He tugged the pants halfway down Mickey’s thighs, and dragged his teeth over the moon-pale curve of his ass.

“Getting right to it, huh?” Mickey grunted above Ian.

“I’m starving,” Ian breathed, grabbing cheeks with both hands before diving in and licking a broad, slow line up the cleft of Mickey’s ass. It’s soft and round, filling Ian’s hands fucking perfectly. He digs his fingers into the flesh and pushes Mickey forward until the tips of his toes just barely brush the floor, perching that perfect ass up just for him. A fucking feast.

The brunette punched out moan as Ian lapped at his tight ring of nerves; he alternated between soft and hard, dipping further down to lick and tease Mickey’s perineum, then bit at the backs of his thighs. With a grin, Ian cocked back his hand, smacking Mickey square on his right ass-cheek, the sound resonating through the kitchen, sharp and distinct. A pink handprint blooms on Mickey’s skin; Ian’s mouth waters. He does it again, harder this time —Mickey jerks and curses through a sharp gasp. 

He rubs at the reddened handprint, digging his fingertips back into the flesh. He kisses and licks the heated skin dragging his teeth across what looks like sensitive spots, just fucking playing with Mickey at this point. Ian moaned low when he heard the noises the brunette was making. The guy was a mess, legs shaking as he moaned and cursed loudly.

Ian buried his face back in Mickey’s ass, working his tongue against his hole until he earns this choked, pained sounding grunt —it’s beautiful. Mickey reached back and fisted Ian’s hair hard; Ian grabbed roughly at him, spreading him wide, not able to get enough, not able to contain how fucking keyed up he was. He decided that he could do this for hours, probably, for as long as his jaw and tongue would allow him to.

He hears Mickey’s free hand sliding over the shiny surface of the counter, like he’s trying to grab onto something and hold on. There’s a deep, guttural moan being torn from the brunette and it gets Ian so hard, he makes his own noise to match.

But then Mickey pulled Ian off of him and turned around, sliding off the counter; Ian didn’t need to be told twice when Mickey grabbed onto his hair again with one hand, the other wrapping around his leaking cock and holding it up to Ian’s lips.

Ian opened up and swallowed him down without question, loving how hot and hard Mickey felt in his mouth, how he filled him and stretched his jaw open like that. Ian groaned around Mickey, sucking and moving his lips.

“Yeah, just like that,” Mickey slurs out. “Look at those pretty fucking lips.”

Ian looks up at Mickey and swallows him down deep, feeling a little sting behind his eyes, but he pushes through it. Mickey tastes so good and feels so good in his mouth, he doesn't care about the urge to gag.

Mickey moves his hand from Ian’s hair, down to his jaw, stroking him there, running his fingers down to under his chin as his hips rock forward, like he’s cradling his face. Ian’s eyes close from the touch, a low moan bubbling up from his belly as he lets Mickey slowly fuck his mouth. He keeps the pressure around Mickey’s cock, keeps his mouth open, but lets the brunette do what he wants, giving him the control. Mickey feels so good inside his mouth, he feels like he’s floating.

“Eyes open,” Mickey says. “Look at me.”

Ian immediately opens his eyes again. _This_. This is his Mickey, not the Mickey from the other night. This is his guy. Ian curls up in it, floating away further, getting completely lost in hard, focused blue eyes and strong voice. This is his Mickey.

Ian can’t stop the disappointed whine when Mickey slips from his mouth, keeping a tight hold on the top of his hair. His mouth, and Mickey’s cock, are messy with spit and precome, ropes of it bridging the short distance between the two. It’s like being dropped in the middle of a porno, but it’s good. Ian, so far gone at this point, opens his mouth and tries to lean forward to take Mickey into his mouth again. But Mickey’s grip tightens in his hair, keeping him still.

“Wanna make me come?” Mickey asks; it sends a chill down Ian’s spine. "Gonna take it?"

Ian nods vigorously, the only thing he can really do, mouth still dropped open, breath coming out harsh. All he wants is Mickey back inside his mouth, that’s all he can focus on, feeling like nothing less than a cock-slut. And he fucking loved it. He’d be that for Mickey, he’d be a cock-slut.

Mickey’s eyes are blown the fuck out right now and Ian knows his probably look much the same. He reaches down to cup his erection through his pants while Mickey eases back into his mouth, fucking him there deeply now. Ian takes it, relaxing his throat, keeping his eyes locked on Mickey the whole time. He can’t help but moan around him.

Everything else fades to the background as he listens to Mickey pant and moan above him. Ian rests his hands on Mickey’s thighs, fingers pressing lightly into his skin.

When Mickey comes, it’s low and packed full of every variation of the word _fuck_ that exists. Ian takes it all, like he said he would, swallowing down what Mickey gives him; he get’s a swell of pride in his chest from the trembling legs and how Mickey speaks so softly to him, telling him how good he did. He rubs gently at Mickey’s legs, while Mickey reaches down to wipe at the corners of his mouth; Ian licks his thumb clean before he stands up, fixing the brunette’s sweatpants on the way.

They just look at each other for a minute, Mickey hooks a hand around the back of Ian’s neck, anchoring him until he feels grounded again. Then Ian cracks a grin and laughs; Mickey does the same before reaching out to palm the front of Ian’s jeans; it’s a silent question, one that Ian answers with a little shake of his head; he can take care of him later.

 

* * *

 

Mickey leaves Ian to wander around the apartment for a few minutes while he throws some proper clothes on. It’s weird that there’s no personal pictures anywhere in the home, but at the same time, he’s kind of grateful for that. Ian doesn't know about Mickey’s situation, but he imagines that seeing a picture of a happy wife and kids would be like a punch in the gut.

So instead he opts to stand at one of the large windows and just look out into the city. The sun isn’t setting yet, but it’s getting there, hanging a bit low. Must be nice to wake up tot his view every day though. It doesn't take long for Ian to hear Mickey’s shoes pad out from wherever he went. He’s in his casual clothes, nothing fancy at all. Ian grins and goes to him.

“You hungry?” Mickey asks. “Was gonna stop by this place on the way. This shitty little bar, but they got good burgers.”

At the reminder that they were actually going somewhere, Ian knew his whole face kind of perked up, even though he tried to cover it up with a simple nod, “I can eat.”

Ian watched the way Mickey moved —he’d always been a little obsessed with the man’s walk. That _I don’t give a fuck_ walk. Mickey wasn’t someone who lit up a room, but someone who stole it for himself when he walked through the door. _This is mine, and this is mine —all of this is mine, and you all can go fuck yourselves if you don’t like it._  

Ian wondered if it was a learned trait or something that he was just born with. He doubted it was learned; you don’t just _develop_ that kind of natural —and he hated using this word— swagger.

They both grabbed their respective bags and right before Mickey opened the door, he turned to Ian and sighed, “Listen… if we run into someone—”

“Am I an associate, cousin or college buddy?” Ian grinned, knowing it was probably going to go this way. If Mickey saw someone he knew, he couldn't very well say _yes, this is my male prostitute for the weekend, pretty ain’t he?_

Mickey tucked his lips between his teeth to hide his smile, “Didn’t go to college. Just a friend from out of town, catching up, all that shit.”

Ian nodded, “Got it.”

He hadn’t noticed before how close they were standing to one another. It was like right out of a cheesy romance novel —Ian could feel the heat radiating from Mickey’s body, could see the splattering of freckles on his face clearly. His dark lashes stark against his pale skin. His mouth. Ian, unthinking, reached out and brushed his fingers against Mickey’s lips, following the curve of his bottom lip, to the corner.

And Mickey just watched him, just barely leaning into his touch.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Ian breathed.

Mickey huffed a soft laugh, his full lips pulling back in a half smile. Ian wanted nothing more than to bite on that bottom lip, to lick his way into his mouth. But he couldn’t. (Well, he _could_ , he could _absolutely_ throw away his one fucking rule and press his lips against Mickey’s and soothe that craving. No one was actually stopping him, aside from himself.)

“Should get going,” Mickey murmured.

Ian nodded, taking his hand back, “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

Mickey didn't drive some ridiculous car. Well, _yeah_ it was a luxury car and _yeah_ it was obviously expensive… but it was just… Mickey. Dark charcoal exterior. All black interior. Fucking nice, and it smelled like Mickey and leather on the inside. 

When they finally got out of Chicago, Ian looked over at Mickey, sliding his hand to rest on his thigh. He figured it was a safe move when the brunette didn't tense up or give him a look, so he idly stroked the tips of his fingers against the denim. 

Every once in a while, he’d span his hand out, squeezing Mickey’s leg gently, brushing his fingers against Mickey’s inner thigh, that sensitive spot. He’d peek over at his client, watching the way Mickey would grip the steering wheel tightly and lick his lips.

“So where’re you taking me?”

Mickey cleared his throat and grinned, “Why, you scared I’m taking you out to a middle of a field to murder you?”

Ian lightly knocked the back of his hand against Mickey’s stomach, “Well, I wasn’t worried before. Ass.”

The brunette looked over at Ian, his grin gently slipping away, “I got this place that’s real out of the way. Go there to think sometimes.”

Ian nodded, “Sounds good.”

“I also go there to hack people up into little pieces and hide them in the walls.”

At Mickey’s deadpanned tone, Ian couldn't help but laugh. It just bubbled up from his belly as he rolled his eyes, “You’re a fucking asshole.”

Mickey laughed loudly with him and Ian that it was probably his favorite sound.

 

* * *

 

Mickey wasn’t lying before, it _was_ a shitty little bar that they stopped at on the way. Barely any cars in the parking lot, across the street from a gas station that had seen better days. It didn’t exactly scream _friends to the gays_ to Ian, but whatever. He was South Side, he knew the drill.

The inside was kind of dim and smokey, classic rock playing softly in the background. They sat down at the bar — _like bros do_. Mickey ordered a beer; Ian, a water.

“So you don’t drink at all?” Mickey asked.

Ian sighed, shaking his head, “Not anymore.”

“Liked it too much?”

Ian thought it over, giving a little shrug, “Yeah, I guess you could say that. It just doesn't always agree with me.”

“Lightweight, huh?” Mickey grinned.

That made Ian laugh, “You have no idea.”

Their burgers came shortly after that and like promised… it was amazing. As soon as Ian took a bite, his eyes went wide, looking over at Mickey. Mickey just nodded; Ian groaned, eyes rolling back. He hadn’t had a burger that good in a long, long ass time.

They talked a little, but mostly it was quiet between the two. Nothing personal, nothing too invasive. Little observations about the bar, about the people in the bar —movies and TV, that sort of shit. It was nice.

Then somehow the topic of South Side came up. Ian didn’t really know how it happened, but it came up and Ian was surprised to learn that Mickey grew up there, mainly because for the life of him, he couldn't remembering seeing him around.

But Mickey explained, very vaguely, that he’d gotten out when he was around thirteen, something to do with family and business and all that shit that the brunette obviously wasn’t completely comfortable talking about. Which was fine, it wasn’t any of Ian’s business.

“So then I guess it’s safe to say that you’re not… out?” Ian said, keeping his voice soft. There weren’t many people in the bar still, but every once in a while the bartender would mosey on over. “I mean, I know how it is in South Side and… I mean, a guy like you? You don’t really seem like the kind of guy who _needs_ to pay for it.”

Mickey arched a brow at him, “Guy like me?”

Ian laughed, fiddling with a cold french fry, dragging it around his plate, “Come on. You’re kind of the whole package; you know, hot, rich, funny… _real_. Could probably get whoever you wanted.”

There was a hesitation in Mickey’s silence before he finally answered, “My line of work doesn't exactly appreciate that kind of shit.”

“Being gay?” Ian looked up at Mickey.

The brunette gnawed on his bottom lip, eyes scanning around the bar, “Yeah, that.”

“So no one knows at all?”

Mickey shrugs, knocking back the rest of his beer, “If they do, no one talks about it.” At Ian’s silence, he sighed and continued, “Had a slip-up when I was sixteen and I’ve had to uh… walk the straight and narrow ever since. So… it is what it is.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Ian frowned, “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip with his thumb, shrugging once more. Ian was about to open his mouth to tell him that he didn't have to talk about it, but then Mickey finally spoke up, “My old man caught me. Long story short, I got a wife I don’t fuck or sleep in the same bed with, and a kid who fucking hates me and that I can barely look at.”

“Shit Mickey,” Ian breathed, fingers itching so badly to reach over and run through dark hair, but he kept his hands to himself.

Mickey’s brows cocked in an equivalent to a shrug, “Is what it is, man… I don’t really wanna talk about this shit right now.”

Sudden, deeply pulling guilt flooded over Ian, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked —we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”

But Mickey just grinned, “It’s okay, man. It’s just not very sexy.”

Ian gave him a small, understanding grin back.

 

* * *

 

The sun has set a little while ago; it’s dark, but there’s lights illuminating the dirt driveway and the porch. It’s not a cabin, but it’s also not _not_ a cabin. Ian doesn’t really know how to explain what he’s looking at, in the middle of the fucking woods (somewhere he’d _never_ in a million years picture Mickey being). Secluded is a good word to describe the location. Just that, _secluded_. Tall trees everywhere, Mickey said there was a lake behind the house, off of a dirt trail through the woods.

“You don’t exactly look like a wilderness guy,” Ian teases, grabbing his bag out of the trunk of Mickey’s car. They brush shoulders, standing close. Ian reaches out and runs a hand over the back of Mickey’s head, like it’s second nature.

The brunette breathes a laugh, “M’not. I like the quiet though.”

“Good for your blood sacrifices?”

“Exactly,” Mickey smirks, giving Ian one of those slow eye-fucks. The want and tension radiating off of his body is thick. Ian weirdly thinks that if it were a physical thing, he’d want to bite into it, bury his face into it.

“I like this,” Ian says, looking around as he follows Mickey to the front door.

“Nice, right?” Mickey pushes the front door open, leading the way inside.

Ian laughs, rolling his eyes at what he finds, “You basically brought the city with you.”

Mickey raises his arms out to his sides, like he’s sarcastically showcasing the place; he’s got this shit-eating grin spread across his face, this _yeah I know I’m ridiculous_ kind of grin. It’s decorated basically the same as his apartment —expensive floors and art and a nice kitchen. 

He’s lead into the master bedroom, plush bedding and warm lighting. Ian puts his bag down where Mickey puts his. It’s strange —but not in a bad way, not really. Here they are, over an hour away from the city, in the middle of nowhere, in this nice ass house. For the weekend.

Mickey’s watching Ian and Ian is watching Mickey. He knows that the brunette feels it too, that strangeness. The comfortable fantasy of the hotel room is gone. It’s just them now.

“You want a drink?” Mickey asked, breaking the silence.

Ian just nods, following his client out of the bedroom, across the house and into the kitchen, “How many rooms does this place have?”

“Four,” Mickey answers while he’s hunting around in the fridge, but it answer comes out more of a question. “I rent it out in the spring.”

“Must get a lot of families,” Ian says. They’re just filling up the quiet space between them, trying to get the strange part out of the way. They both know this, so they let it happen, the inane conversation.

“Yeah. Got a couple jet skis for the lake. There’s some walking trails, that kind of shit.”

Ian can’t help but laugh, because Mickey’s giving him the _what the fuck are we doing_ look. “Okay, okay… you wanna watch some TV or something? Just chill out?”

“Yes,” Mickey says with a relieved sigh; he tosses him a bottle of water, grabs a beer for himself and they make their way to the living room. Mickey turns on the Discovery Channel, which just basically tickles the hell out of Ian.

He settles down on the couch, watching as Mickey settle down too —a little further than he’d like him too. So he nudges the brunette’s knee with his foot and gestures for him to come to him. Mickey rolls his eyes, but does, letting Ian situate them so he’s leaning against the arm of the couch; they’re both stretched out, Mickey settled between Ian’s legs, leaning back against his chest. Ian likes that.

Mickey grunts something while he’s trying to get comfortable that Ian can’t really hear, except for the end, “—a fucking chick.”

Ian arches a brow at him, even though his client can’t see. He reaches down in front of Mickey, grabbing at the crotch of his jeans while he presses his lips right up against his ear, “If you were a chick, we’d have a problem.”

It’s an odd angle, both of them leaning forward a bit, but Ian keeps his hand firmly planted. He feels Mickey harden under his grip, so Ian cups and rubs at him through his jeans, biting gently at the shell of his ear. Mickey’s hips rock into Ian’s hold as his head lolls back against Ian’s chest. He curses under his breath, ragged and drawn out.

“No more of that shit,” Ian murmurs, sliding his hand out of Mickey’s jeans.

Mickey makes a small sound of protest when Ian stops touching him, but he takes a deep breath and situates himself to get comfortable again. 

There’s a marathon of _Dirty Jobs_ airing, so they end up watching that. Ian slips his hand under Mickey’s shirt while they watch, ghosting his fingers up and down Mickey’s abdomen. His skin is so warm under Ian’s hand, feels so good.

This whole setup felt good. Mickey had his arms resting on Ian’s legs, completely relaxed against his chest while they watched TV and made little comments here and there to each other about what was going on. Ian forgot himself for a moment, got completely caught up in hanging out with Mickey that he forgot it was all fake.

It was a problem. He already knew he was getting attached, but feeling however he did for a client… not good. Not good at all, especially for a guy like Mickey. Yeah, he was basically the complete fucking package, but the hard reality was that Ian was a goddamn hooker and this wasn’t Pretty Woman. Mickey wasn’t going to save him from this life of selling his body. 

“Ay,” Mickey’s voice drew Ian out of his thoughts.

“Hm?” Ian hummed, watching Mickey as he sat up on the couch and faced Ian. God he was fucking gorgeous, Ian could barely stand it.

“Got all quiet on me,” Mickey explained. “You good?”

Ian nodded, pushing through the sudden reality and disappointment to give Mickey a slow smile, “Yeah, just spaced out, sorry.”

“Wanna go smoke?”

Ian nodded, getting up from the couch and stretching. He caught Mickey looking at him while he did, so he winked at him. Mickey gave him the middle finger and gave his ass a light smack when he passed.

 

* * *

 

The night, when you’re in the middle of nowhere, is a quiet that Ian has never heard before. The back patio has nice outdoor oversized furniture, cushioned and facing out towards trees —beyond that, by the light of the moon, you can see the dark lake glittering. It’s fucking beautiful. 

Ian leans back on the big chair, looking up into the dark sky, listening to Mickey pad out onto the back porch to join him. Mickey slips a lighter into his hand and settles down on the chair next to him, cracking open a beer.

“Why’d you want to do this?” Ian asks, his voice coming out quieter than was really necessary, but it just seemed right. He wasn’t sure why he was asking, could have been completely ruining the moment, but his curiosity won out.

Mickey grins around the mouth of his beer bottle before he takes a long drink; Ian watches the way his throat moves when he does. “Celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Ian lights up a cigarette, keeping his eyes on his client.

The grin stays in place, if not going a little sharp at the edges; Mickey takes another drink of his beer and sets the bottle down on the little table beside him, leaning back in his chair. Blue eyes flick away from Ian to settle on the night sky when he answers, very simply, “My dad died.”

Not exactly what Ian had been expecting. He doesn't know what to say, rendered completely speechless, the only thing he can think to do at that moment is pull hard on his cigarette and pass it over to Mickey’s waiting fingers.

He’s honest when he does find words, “Normally I’d say sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t,” Mickey sighs, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“Wasn’t going to.”

Mickey looks over at Ian and just nods once, “Thanks.”

Ian reaches over to Mickey’s chair, grabs ahold of the side of the seat and drags it over so their chairs are arm-to-arm. Mickey gives him a little questioning grin; Ian reaches to run his fingers through the back of his hair, scrubbing at Mickey’s scalp until his eyes flutter closed for a moment. 

“Why do you do this?” Mickey asked.

Ian frowns, “Do what?”

“This,” Mickey gestures between him and Ian.

Ah. Why does he whore himself out. Ian sighs, giving a little shrug, “Means to an end.”

“What’s the end?”

“Something better,” Ian murmurs, watching Mickey’s hand slip into his lap, curling around the top of his thigh. He gnaws at his bottom lip, wondering if Mickey even knows what kind of effect he has on him. 

He can’t help but keep thinking about Mickey’s home situation as he looks up at the sky. That must be fucking awful. Ian’s heard of that _corrective_ shit. His dad must have been some kind of monster to put his son through that. Even marrying the woman. Fuck. That’s rough.

Ian wants to know more, but he doesn’t ask; hardly seems appropriate and Mickey made it clear at the bar that he didn't want to talk about it anyway. But he wonders what his wife looks like —his kid. Wonders if it’s a daughter or a son, what their name is. He wonders if now that Mickey’s dad is dead, if he can live his life how he wants to. 

 

* * *

 

Ian gets a moment to himself, enough time to take his medicine. He glares at the pill bottles for ruining the fantasy.

They shower together before bed. Hot water rushes over Ian. He feels Mickey’s strong hands gliding over the skin of his back, fingers burying into his hair, taking care of him. Ian hums and leans into the touches. He feels good —doesn’t feel like a whore getting scrubbed clean.

He’s never seen Mickey so _gentle_ ; the brunette is so focused as he washes Ian, soapy hands sliding over his chest and shoulders, slipping down to his abdomen and back up. Ian watches him, trying to soak in every moment; Mickey isn't looking at him in the eyes though and Ian kind of wishes he would.

Their hands are everywhere, soapy and slick. They glide over every dip and curve available, the pressure firm but careful. Slowly, Ian’s breath gets more and more ragged. It’s like Mickey just knows where to touch him, how to touch him. He’s being so fucking gentle and Ian’s not exactly used to that side of him, but not for one second does he want it to stop.

Then after they’ve rinsed off, Mickey kneels in front of Ian. And Ian can barely think.

He watches the brunette with wide eyes and breath caught in his throat. He is on fucking fire and tingling all over, getting so hard that he’s sure that most of the blood in his body is just rushing straight to his dick. He feels light-headed —in a very good way, a very sweet _holy fuck this is happening_ way. Mickey’s never put his mouth on him before. It’s just the way it was; Ian’s the pro, Ian does the blowing. 

“Fuck,” Ian finally finds his words, but they come out all breathy. He watches Mickey take him in his hand, blue eyes looking right up at him, and then that full mouth drops open.

Mickey is hot and wet and soft on the inside of his mouth. Ian lets his head fall forward, eyes squeezing shut. That hot, wet warmth slowly works down his cock, a hand gripping at the base. Ian can’t fucking _move_ , it’s so good.  It’s just Ian and Mickey out in the middle of nowhere. No timetable, no pimp waiting across the street in an SUV. Just them. And that knowledge sends this shiver up Ian's spine. Just them.

He’s been on the cusp nearly all night, after what happened at Mickey’s apartment, it had just been brewing there, that ache —that _need_. Ian knows he’s not going to last as long as he’d like to, what with that sweet pressure from Mickey’s mouth and the way he hums around him so softly every so often. It’s like Mickey is making love to his cock with his mouth and Ian can barely breathe.

Ian braces his hand on the shower wall, watching Mickey swallow him down. Blue eyes are still fixed on him, and those lips are stretching so fucking beautifully around him. Mickey hums again; Ian shudders.

The brunette's free hand slides up Ian’s abdomen as he keeps working him with his mouth. His dull fingernails barely scratch down his heated, wet skin. Ian lets out a low moan because he can’t hold it in anymore.

“Oh my god,” Ian whines out, actually whines. He hasn’t done that in a long time. But Mickey’s going so torturously slow and so good, that Ian is completely unraveling with each passing second. He’s not even sure how much longer he can stand up.

Soft pressure, sliding lips down, taking him deep. Ian reaches down to brush his fingers into dark, wet hair. He's sure that he’s going to die. Then Mickey replaces his mouth with his hand, jerking Ian nice and slow, but with heavy pressure, and Ian wants to crawl out of his skin. A rapid burn bubbles up from his toes and he knows that he’s nearing his end.

“Told you I’d take care of you,” Mickey says.

“Didn’t say you were — _fuck_ — you were gonna kill me,” Ian punches out a half-laugh, half-moan, eyes rolling back.

Mickey chuckles, swallows Ian down deep a couple times before asking, “You wanna come for me?”

“Please,” Ian just nods; his knees are weak. He untangles his fingers from Mickey’s hair, dropping his hand down to stroke the side of the brunette’s face. Mickey leans into his touch, his eyes finally slipping closed as he works Ian with his hand.

“You look so fucking good,” Ian tells him.

When Mickey takes him deep again —deeper than he had before— his free hand comes up and cups Ian’s balls, fingers pressing against his perineum. Ian feels his knees getting weaker, grabbing onto the wall. He exhales, air rushing out like a deflating balloon. Everything goes all buzzy and warm and he knows this is it.

Again, Mickey replaces his mouth with his hand, “Sit back on the ledge behind you.”

Ian does, eyes screwing shut tight, jaw clenched tight as Mickey increases the pressure of his hand, the speed of each stroke. Everything is tight tight tight and he’s not even sure he’s connected to his body anymore.

“Wanna see your eyes when you come,” Mickey says, his voice all strained and thick.

He opens his eyes, just barely able to, watching as Mickey jerks him off, kneeling in front of him like that. It’s so hot. It’s so fucking hot. And it feels so good. Ian can’t put the words together, but the way Mickey looks… damn. His full mouth is all red and swollen, eyes blown out, wet hair sticking up everywhere.

It hits him like a semi truck. Ian makes this low noise that he didn't even think he was capable of making, forcing his eyes to stay open and fixed on Mickey’s blue ones. His hands curls over the corner of the ledge; Mickey grins, taking him down deep into his throat one last time.

“Fuck!” he punches out, long and ragged. Ian comes down Mickey’s throat, bucking his hips and moving a hand into black hair, holding him there, making him take him even deeper, and Mickey fucking takes it like a champ.

He swears he blacks out, or leaves his body, for a few minutes afterwards. One minute he’s coming and cursing and growling above Mickey, the next he’s got a hand at the back of his neck while the side of his face is pressed against Mickey’s chest. Ian’s trying to catch his breath, breathing so hard, he feels his own arms raise to wrap around the brunette’s hips. 

Mickey’s chest rumbles a little when he lets out a soft laugh, “You good?”

“M’dead,” Ian pants.

 

* * *

 

When they climb into bed for the night, Ian pulls Mickey against him and buries his nose in the back of his head, inhaling his scent. At first, Mickey is a little tense, but he relaxes against Ian’s chest. Ian brushes his lips across the back of Mickey’s shoulder.

He can’t really remember the last time he slept with someone like this. It’s nice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally write Mickey quite so semi-dommish, but I'm into it.
> 
> Ch. 4 will be up.... in a few days, probably.


	4. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something extremely freeing about stripping down in the woods, running full speed down a dock and flinging yourself into a body of water. Ian feels like he’s flying when he’s suspended in the air for the brief seconds, hovering over the deep blue water. He’s never done this before. It’s always been a shitty above-ground pool or the public pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALTERNATIVE CHAPTER TITLE:** "THE FUCKINING"  
>  That should tell you what's up.

Morning wood is a relentless bitch who shows no mercy; Ian’s hard and straining against his boxers like a thirteen year old. He wakes up in much the same state as he fell asleep. His arm is still slung around Mickey, their legs molded together, sheets bunched up around their waists. It’s so comfortable that Ian really doesn't want to move to take his meds or do anything else.

 But he does, with a soft sigh, he carefully slips out of bed, grabs his medicine to take to the bathroom and knock back with sink water. Might as well get it out of the way now, and he wants to at least _attempt_ to stay as close to his routine as possible. Ian sighs, adjusting his (still _very_ present) erection before carefully going back to bed, settling where he was just a few minutes ago.  He presses his lips to the back of Mickey’s neck, snuggling behind him, holding him tight. 

Mickey stirs a little, making a soft noise before he stretches out of Ian’s arms. Ian tries not to frown at the loss of contact when the brunette shifts to lay on his back. Reaching out and resting his hand on Mickey’s bare sternum, he watches dark eyebrows lift and crease before Mickey opens his eyes.

He looks… so good. Mickey wears sleep well, puffy lips and crease markings from the pillowcase, his eyes just barely open. Ian wets his lips and trails his hand down Mickey’s sternum to his stomach, grinning when the brunette makes an appreciative little moan.

“Morning,” Ian murmurs softly, pressing up against Mickey, brushing his lips across his shoulder. He wraps his arm around the shorter man’s waist and hitches his leg across his lap, pressing against him. His body is craving Mickey’s touch, sleepy and needy this morning.

“Mm,” Mickey hums, a hand reaching down to rub at Ian’s thigh. 

Ian can’t really help himself. He moves carefully, settling above Mickey, straddling his lap. They press together and Ian groans softly when he feels that Mickey is hard this morning as well. With only boxers separating them, Ian lays on top of Mickey, dropping his mouth to the side of the brunette’s neck, licking and kissing the spot behind his ear while he slowly rocks his hips.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Mickey’s voice is hoarse but soft; his hands find their way to Ian’s hips, curling around him there, moving with Ian’s movements.

Ian keeps moving, slowly rolling his hips while he licks and kisses at Mickey’s skin. They’re pressed together so tightly, nearly skin against skin. Mickey’s hands don’t move from Ian’s hips, fingers biting into him. 

And Mickey’s whispering to him with his sleepy voice, between the soft moans and heavy breathing. He’s telling him how good it feels, saying Ian’s name, things that make Ian go all gooey inside. He’s not sure if it’s because it’s the morning and for some reason Ian is particularly sensitive when he wakes up… or because of something else. Whatever the reason, he’s completely hypnotized from Mickey’s words, soaking them in, completely fucking gone on them.

Ian moves his lips to the base of Mickey’s throat, dragging his tongue and teeth there, moaning softly against his skin. He feels himself starting to let go, and so pauses, trying to stave off until Mickey comes first.

“Don’t stop,” the brunette whispers, one of his hands fisting into the back of Ian’s hair, pulling tightly.

Ian shudders, “Want you to come.”

“Don’t stop,” Mickey says again.

So he does as he’s told, not even mouthing at Mickey’s skin anymore, just pressing his face into the crook of his neck and rolling his hips down, pressing their covered erections against each other, the friction burning him up from the inside out.

He remembers Mickey on his knees, in the shower last night. The slow way he took him into his mouth deep, humming and working him with his hand. The way Mickey looks at him, that slow eye-fuck, like he’s about to devour him. Mickey’s smell; the taste of his skin; his mouth. These things bubble up from the back of Ian’s mind and that’s what does it.

Ian comes; he lets out a long, low whine, hips stuttering, breathing so hard that his throat burns. Mickey’s holding him, hands rubbing up and down his back while he murmurs more of those words _-good, you're so good_. And Ian was never one for seeking praise before, but whenever Mickey does it, he feels proud of himself. He feels good.

 

* * *

 

They eat breakfast on the back porch, like a couple of well-to-do’s, coffee and toast and fruit. The sun is warm and Ian leans back in his chair, letting the rays hit his face as he listens to the birds in the trees. This is like a dream and Ian doesn't ever want to wake up. Mickey keeps his hand on the back of Ian’s chair, every once in a while reaching up to brush through his messy hair. Fuck, it was nice. He could get used to this.

He really doesn't know _how_ Mickey does it, but the guy has him constantly on the edge of losing his goddamn mind. His skin is so sensitive to the brunette’s touches, it’s as if his nerves spark to life from just a brush of his fingers.

Ian fucks Mickey on the patio table. He fucks him hard.

Mickey had put his hand on his thigh and something just _snapped_. The brunette laughed, completely on board, when Ian grabbed at him, pushing him down, bending him over the edge of the wooden piece of furniture.

He tugged Mickey’s sweatpants halfway down his thighs and grabbed roughly at his ass, just marveling in the absolute perfection of it. There are already very light bruises dotting the pale skin, and sends such a thrill up Ian's spine, seeing his marks on his Mickey.

“You got the stuff, tough guy?” Mickey asked through a ragged breath.

“Yeah,” Ian grinned, digging around in his sweatpants pocket for a condom and lube, and set them on the table.

“Of _course_ you do,” Mickey laughed. The laugh turned into a moan though when Ian buried his face into his ass, feasting on the brunette. He takes the time to suck marks onto the very tops of the back of Mickey’s thighs, right under his ass. Every deep pink mark is rewarded with a heavy, broken moan; Ian looks at his work and thinks _mine_.

By the time Ian was buried deep inside Mickey, a coffee cup had fallen off the table and shattered on the floor of the patio, spilling the hot liquid everywhere. With every thrust, the table stuttered and jerked. The sound of skin smacking harshly against skin interrupts the once peacefulness of the woods (something that, later, would make Ian laugh). Mickey punched out desperate grunts and reached his hands out wildly in front of him, trying to hold onto something.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mickey chanted. “Right there — _fuck!_ ”

Ian grabbed and held on tight to two fistfuls of Mickey’s reddened ass-cheeks. He’d been gripping him hard, and smacking the flesh, probably leaving more bruises, but Mickey keened and begged for more every time, so Ian kept going.

“You like that?” Ian grunted, nearly pulling out before surging back into Mickey. He grabbed Mickey’s arms, pulling them behind his back and holding him down like that, effectively trapping him like he liked. “Like when I bend you over and fuck you like this, so you can’t fucking move?”

Mickey was gone, babbling curses and _yes_ and breathing hard with his face pressed against the table. The other coffee cup fell to the floor and shattered.

 

* * *

 

There’s something extremely freeing about stripping down in the woods, running full speed down a dock and flinging yourself into a body of water. Ian feels like he’s flying when he’s suspended in the air for the brief seconds, hovering over the deep blue water. He’s never done this before. It’s always been a shitty above-ground pool or the public pool. 

It’s a big lake, surrounded by dense trees. Way on the other side, there are a couple houses, but for the most part anyone who lives in that area is set further back from the body of water. It’s surprisingly quiet and empty for such a pretty place.

The water is chilly, but not too cold. Ian lets himself sink under the surface for a second, reveling in the feeling of weightlessness, of that calmness, before he comes back up for air. He looks around, seeing Mickey walking to the end of the long dock, hands shoved into his pockets as he grins at Ian.

“Come on,” Ian pants, dipping his head under the water again. He swims over the edge of the wooden structure, planting his elbows on top so he can look at his client. “Come swim with me, it’s nice.”

Mickey sighs, scratched the back of his head, “Nah.”

Ian frowns, “Why, can’t you swim?” At Mickey’s silence, Ian’s eyes go wide, “You can’t swim? For real?”

“Fuck you,” the brunette rolls his eyes.

“Hey,” Ian reaches forward, resting his hand on Mickey’s shoe. “Do you trust me?”

Mickey breathes a laugh, crossing his arms under his chest. Ian waits patiently for him to answer, watching him intently, fingers inching their way up under the leg of his jeans to brush against the skin of his ankle.

Finally, the brunette nods, “Yeah.”

Ian smiles, can’t really help it. He feels a bubble in his chest and backs up from the dock, “Then trust me.”

Mickey hesitates before he strips down, toeing off his shoes, tugging his shirt off over his head, undressing until he’s in all his pale glory and it’s hard to not stare at those fucking legs and bruised ass as he carefully slips into the water.

Ian goes to him; Mickey holds onto the edge of the dock, not looking completely comfortable, so he wraps an arm around his waist, bringing them close together. Their noses brush each other and Ian stops himself from the instinct to press his lips to Mickey’s. God, he wants to… it just feels right.

The brunette is breathing kind of heavily, hand firmly curled over the edge of the dock, but his eyes are focused solely on Ian.

“Nice, right?” Ian murmurs, brushing his nose against Mickey’s again. He can taste his client’s breath, coffee and cigarettes and oranges. It’d probably be a gross combination in any other circumstance.

“Mmhm,” Mickey just hums, wrapping his free arm around Ian.

They stay there for a while, wading in the water, Mickey moving his legs a while, pressed close, noses brushing each other. Mickey finally relaxes a little more and dips his head under the water. Ian finally gets it out of him, that when he was little, he tried to learn, but it just didn't work out. Mickey’d almost drowned, and while he’s not scared of the water, the whole thought of drowning is (understandably) terrifying.

Mickey also said that he’s never told anyone that before. And Ian isn’t completely sure that it’s what prompts him to tell Mickey what he does, the whole secret-for-a-secret or flaw-for-a-flaw deal, but he opens his mouth and it just sort of comes out, easily as ever.

“I’m bipolar.”

“What?” Mickey frowns, brows creased in confusion. “What’s that?”

“It’s… a mental thing,” Ian feels his face heat up. “Basically, it’s like… really intense mood swings. Just like… cycles of high highs and low lows, over and over again.”

Mickey’s eyes are searching Ian’s face with intense focus, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I am,” Ian nods, “I take medicine for it, and I’ve been good for like five months. I just… I dunno why I wanted to tell you.”

And then comes the part where Ian doesn't want to look the other person in the eyes, doesn't want to see that _oh you poor thing_ etched across their face. He doesn't let go of Mickey, but he’s not looking at him anymore, instead focusing on the dark blue of the water. He kind of wishes he could take it back. Fucking stupid.

But then Mickey lets go of the dock to wrap his arms around Ian’s shoulders, pressing his face into the crook of his neck. And Ian has to stop himself from breaking down right then and there.

“Sorry for ruining the fantasy,” Ian breathes a laugh, one hand holding onto the dock, his free arm holding Mickey tightly.

Mickey leans back, eyes hard, “Don’t say that. You ain’t ruining shit.”

Most of the time, when people say these things, Ian rolls his eyes. Because it's like that automatic response for people - _you're not ugly, don't say that!_ - _you're not overreacting, don't say that!_  Most of the time, it's a pacifying move, even if it's true that the other person _isn't_ ugly or overreacting or whatever the fuck is wrong, people just say these things to calm them down and make them feel better. Ian hates that. 

The thing about Mickey saying these words to Ian... he's got this _clearness_ , this honesty in his eyes. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but Ian believes him.

And he's never wanted to kiss anyone more in his fucking life.

 

* * *

 

They shower after getting back from the lake; keeping their hands to themselves proved to be a severe failure, with all the teasing and playing. So before Ian even has the chance to pull on a pair of boxers, Mickey is pushing him onto the bed.

Mickey’s biting at him, Ian’s biting at Mickey; lube and condoms are grabbed out of the nightstand. The bed is soft, so fucking soft, feels so good under Ian’s back as Mickey straddles him, they rut against each other, grabbing each other wherever they can.

Mickey gets himself ready while he’s on top of Ian. He can only watch the way that full mouth drops open, the sound of panting and moaning spilling out.

The longer Mickey gets himself ready, the more Ian feels like he’s about to explode. He needs it so fucking bad, wants it so fucking bad. He’s moving under Mickey, trying to find more friction, while his fingers glide up and down pale thighs, squeezing and lightly scratching. He’s so hard that it’s almost painful.

“Please,” Ian pants out, gripping Mickey’s thighs.

“You want it?” Mickey grins through a moan. 

Ian hears the sick, slick sound of his fingers working himself open with lube and it might as well have been a fucking hallelujah chorus, it was so sweet. He nods, sucking in a sharp pocket of air when he feels Mickey’s hands slide a condom down his cock.

“Shit, you’re so fucking hard,” Mickey says, glancing up at him with a mixture of heat and excitement.

“Want you,” Ian pants.

Mickey smirks, “I better not disappoint then, huh?”

Ian grabs handfuls of Mickey’s ass and squeezes roughly, “You never do.”

Thing is, Mickey rides Ian _good_. Takes him _so_ good, knows what he’s doing on top of a cock, and it’s _such_ a turn-on for Ian. So he feels like he’s on cloud fucking nine when, after a few moments later, Mickey is holding him down, pushing him down against the bed and using his cock to get himself off. Mickey takes all the control back when he rides Ian like this, and Ian gives it up willingly. 

This —being held down like this— is not something Ian trusts with any other client but Mickey. And he knows that completely obliterates the line between working and honest fucking. He ignores it though — _shouldn’t_ , but he does. Because Ian throws out professionalism when it comes to Mickey, like it doesn't even matter. They’re fucking, in that moment. Transaction fading away. Just _fucking_.

Mickey urges Ian on, telling him how good he feels, how filled up he feels with Ian inside him. It’s not that Ian hasn't heard these things before, but the way Mickey does it, fucking himself on Ian’s cock, shoving a couple fingers into Ian’s mouth to be sucked while he’s saying these things… it’s enough to take even the strongest man down. He’s so far gone that every time Mickey sinks back down onto him, a pulse vibrates through his entire body.

Ian watches Mickey wrap a hand around his own cock and stroke roughly, using the soaked fingers that were in his mouth just moments ago for lubrication. He feels the need to come, but holds out, making himself wait until Mickey comes all over his chest. Again, not something Ian just lets happen with other clients (he’s never been one for _any_ kind of _money shot_ ). _Again_ , Ian throwing out what little professionalism remains. 

But Mickey is wonderful when he comes on top of Ian’s dick like that, body shaking, head thrown back, leaning back, his hand gripping Ian’s thigh hard. His hips stutter until Ian takes the silent cue to surge forward and twist their positions until he’s on top, hitching Mickey’s legs around his waist as he fucks him hard. Their skin sticks and slides against each other from Mickey’s come and it’s fucking _filthy_ like that, yeah.

Mickey’s whining and grunting under him, still holding onto his control as he fists a hand into Ian’s hair, “You gonna fucking come for me? Come on, come for me.” 

Ian can only nod in response, his body’s on fire, muscles screaming, he’s humming all over, the pleasure pulsing. He drops his head to press into the crook of Mickey’s neck, his mouth taking over, sucking and biting hard at the skin there while he lets himself go with a loud, muffled moan. His body is tense, white hot ripping down his spine, spreading out everywhere. Mickey holds onto him, rubbing at his back until Ian can gather the strength to roll off of him.

After a few minutes of heavy breathing, Mickey slides off the bed and comes back with a warm, damp towel to clean them off. Ian feels his eyes get heavier with each passing second; he may be young and have excellent stamina but _fuck_ if he wasn’t exhausted.

He doesn't really know how or when Mickey gets him under the covers, but he does. Ian buries himself deep into the blanket, sighing softly when he feels a body press behind him and an arm snake around his middle. He grins when he feels Mickey brush his lips across the back of his neck.

Ian turns so he can face Mickey and they tangle up together. Suddenly, the last thing he wants to do is close his eyes. Mickey’s looking at him and he’s looking at Mickey. It’s so quiet in the room, except for their soft breathing.

Mickey reaches up and brushes his fingers through Ian’s hair; that’s what finally makes Ian close his eyes. He sighs from the touch, pulling Mickey even closer. He kind of wishes that they could just stay right in this moment for the rest of the weekend.

“Tell me something,” Ian murmurs, opening his eyes again.

“Like what?” Mickey keeps his voice low as well, putting his hand back where it was, wrapping his arm back around Ian’s middle.

“Anything,” Ian says.

“Uhm,” Mickey sighed, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m really glad we did this.”

“Yeah?” Ian smiled, rubbing circles on Mickey’s back with his fingers.

“Yeah.”

“Me too. I’m having a good time.”

“Yeah?” Mickey’s eyes lit up a little.

“Yeah,” Ian nodded. “Tell me something else.”

Mickey breathed a laugh, “Why don’t _you_ tell _me_ something, huh?”

Ian shrugged, “You’re my favorite.”

He really needed to keep his filter in check. Ian stilled, watching the way Mickey was looking curiously at him, a little frown creasing his brows. He even opened his mouth to apologize for saying that, but Mickey cut him off.

“Didn’t like seeing that mark on you,” he said, eyes flitting away from Ian’s gaze. “Ain’t my fucking place, I know. I just, I dunno, didn’t like it.”

Ian didn't really know what to say, but he felt embarrassed for some reason. Yeah, it wasn't Mickey’s place to say that shit and Ian shouldn't be embarrassed about it, but here he was, feeling this way anyway.

The only thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Oh…”

He’s got Chris is the back of his mind. Ruining the fantasy. _That doesn't include marked up twinks begging for cock_. Fuck, he was fucking stupid, huh? 

Ian almost laughed at himself, thinking that Mickey could… _could what?_ See him as something other than an escort? This was a business arrangement revolving around fucking. And here Ian was, looking too far into the little touches and heated looks. Being so fucking dumb. Christ. 

“Can I tell you something else?” Mickey asks.

Ian just nods, trying to get his bearings.

“It’s uh… it’s because I get, you know…” he sighs roughly, his breath blowing across Ian’s mouth. “I dunno, I get fucking jealous or something, I guess.”

Oh… _oh_. Ian swallows hard; his mind going completely blank. He hates that this little grin is threatening to surface; he hates that hearing Mickey say that makes him feel suddenly giddy. He hates it because he fucking loves it. Because of the weight that come with those words, the implication that Mickey might have a hard time with _that line_ too. 

Ian gives Mickey just a little grin, like a secret one that they just share. Mickey gives him one back.

“Told you,” Ian whispered, closing his eyes.

“Told me what?”

“You were gonna get me in trouble.”

 

* * *

 

When Ian wakes up, Mickey’s not in his arms. But he is in the bed, sitting up against the headboard, looking at something on his phone, with a frown. Ian hums softly, needing contact, moving to settle between Mickey’s legs so he can lay his head on his abdomen. Mickey didn't look up from his phone, but moved his legs and ran a hand through Ian’s hair anyway.

“What time is it?” Ian asks, snuggling down into Mickey.

“Almost five.”

“Shit,” He laughed, pressing his lips to Mickey’s stomach, “You working?”

“Eh,” Mickey sighed, “Just checking on shit.”

Ian kept kissing the brunette’s stomach, softly, slowly, “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Just got brothers who’ve lost their fucking minds recently,” Mickey says. “Dad dies and now they’re acting like they don’t know what the fuck is what.”

“Stressful,” Ian noted, slowly moving towards Mickey’s hip. “You uh… doing okay with all that?” 

He almost doesn't want to ask and ruin the moment, but surely losing your father —no matter how much of a goddamn monster he was— had to be, at the very least, _something_ … right? A twinge? Maybe? Hell, Frank was a piece of shit but Ian thought that maybe he’d feel a _little_ something if and when he finally croaked. 

Then again, Frank wouldn't _ever_ pull something like Mickey’s father had. Ever.

“Mmhm,” the reply was a distracted grunt. 

Yeah, that was all Ian was going to get out of the brunette on that particular subject.

“What do you wanna eat for dinner?” Mickey added on.

Ian took the cue to move on, and he gathered himself quickly. “You,” he grinned against Mickey’s skin, peeking up at the shorter man.

Mickey rolled his eyes and laughed.

Ian laughed before going back to loving on Mickey; he inhaled deeply, pressing his face into Mickey’s hip, right above the waistband of his boxers, “You smell good.”

The brunette hummed, setting his phone on the nightstand while he watched Ian. They just looked at each other for a minute while something in the air shifted. It was subtle and slow, propelling Ian to work his way up Mickey’s chest, trailing soft kisses behind him. 

Mickey sighed softly and ran his fingers through Ian’s hair and over his shoulders while Ian kissed up his sternum, mouthing at him gently, tasting his flesh there. The brunette was so responsive to Ian, breath hitching and knees bending just slightly so he could get closer. 

Ian dragged his tongue over one of Mickey’s nipples, then his teeth, just ghosting over it, earning a broken exhale; he did the same to the other one before continuing up his path. He licked and sucked gently at the hollow of Mickey’s throat, not enough to mark him, but enough to have the brunette breathing heavy. 

Ian stayed there for a bit, inhaling Mickey’s scent and savoring the taste of his skin. Deftly, he moved both of them, sitting back on his ankles, pulling Mickey into his lap so the brunette was straddling him.

It was slow and soft, the way Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian and the way Ian moved his mouth to the side of Mickey’s neck, still lapping and kissing at his skin. They breathed together, against each other. Ian knew that this wasn’t something that was “okay” right now, because he was so far gone from “doing his job” at that moment, he was just… _with_ Mickey. Enjoying Mickey… for himself. And he had been, for a long time, he realized that now.

“Shit,” Mickey breathed heavily, his fingers sinking into Ian’s hair while he arched against him. Ian kept a firm hold on the brunette, hands spanning out over his back, mouthing up to right on the underside of Mickey’s chin.

Ian kept going, working his way up, going to the very edge of his rule, almost breaking it by kissing and licking _next_ _to_ the corner of Mickey’s mouth. The brunette rocked and held him tighter; Ian kept moving until his mouth was pressed against the shell of Mickey’s ear.

“You taste so good,” Ian whispered to Mickey, letting his mouth run. “Could taste you all day. Get me so fucking hard, baby. Fuck, you feel good.”

Mickey shuddered, moving his hips, pressing down onto Ian.

“So fucking good,” Ian murmured, moving them so he could lay Mickey back down on the bed. 

Heavy blue eyes stared up at him, pupils blown out. Mickey’s mouth was just barely parted, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Ian felt this wave of want roll over him and he groaned, pressing down against the brunette. He felt hands grab at his sides and slide all the way up his body until they were framing his face. 

Ian tilted his head into the touch, not daring to look away, even for a second. He absentmindedly reached down to hitch Mickey’s leg up around his waist, and then the other, bringing them snug up against each other. The brunette moves his hands from Ian’s face, down to his chest, finally gripping at his sides again.

“You remember the first time you came to me?” Ian breathed.

Mickey didn't answer, but Ian already knew the answer. It wasn’t _that_ long ago, of course he remembered. Their noses ghosted against each other as Ian rocked down against Mickey again, making him moan softly. 

“You opened the door and I was just like _fuck_ ,” Ian continued, “He’s beautiful.” 

Mickey’s eyes flitted away from Ian’s for a second, but he stayed put.

“Hey,” Ian says, waiting for Mickey to look at him again.

When he finally does, Ian leans forward, just barely, closing the space between their mouths, softly pressing against Mickey, softly _kissing_ him. Mickey’s got soft lips —relaxed, pliant lips that give easily under Ian’s. There’s no resistance, no tense reaction.  It’s chaste; it kind of brings Ian back to his very first kiss, it’s so sweet. It’s kind of fucking perfect.

Ian pulls away slowly and watches Mickey’s eyes blink back open.

“Do it again,” Mickey murmurs.

There’s no thought of _this is a bad idea_ , even though there should be. Ian exhales in a rush, closing the space between their mouths once more. He presses against Mickey’s lips a little harder this time, groaning when fingers bury into his hair; he moves just barely down to catch Mickey’s bottom lip between his own, sucking gently. Mickey shudders, matching what Ian’s doing, but focusing on his top lip.

Ian pulls Mickey against him tighter, because even though there’s no space between them, he can’t get close enough. Mickey cages him with his legs and gently swipes at Ian’s top lip with his warm tongue. Ian groans in the back of his throat, taking the cue to lick at Mickey’s bottom lip, inhaling deeply through his nose.

“Want you,” Mickey pants in between kisses, blindly reaching for the nightstand while they kiss, while Ian tastes the inside of his mouth, getting lost in how _right_ if felt.

It’s desperate, the way Ian sits back, tugging at Mickey’s boxers, throwing them behind him; the way Mickey grabs a pillow and shoves under the small of his back. Ian plucks the lube from the brunette’s grasp, slicking his shaking fingers —not a lot of prep is even needed, but Ian reaches down and sinks a finger inside of the panting man under him. He works him open, sinking in another finger until Mickey gives him the go ahead.

Ian doesn't even completely remove his boxers, just pushes them down far enough to roll a condom on and settle back on top of Mickey. He kisses him again, slow and deep and _why the fuck haven't they been doing this the whole fucking time_ , because this man’s mouth was made for kissing. Ian pushes into tight heat and moans into Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey reaches between them to jerk himself off, but Ian wants to draw this out, this bubble of everything he’s ever wanted. He realizes that now, in the back of his mind. It’s perfect. They just fucking fit and he doesn't want this to stop before it has to.

So he takes Mickey’s hands and pins them above his head, rolling his hips deeply into the shorter man. With the help of the pillow under Mickey and this angle, Ian bottoms-out every thrust, no problem. He gently breaks their kiss off to watch Mickey, to watch the way his face twists in this expression that could almost look painful.

“That good for you, Mick?” Ian asks, barely able to catch his breath. “You like that, nice and —and deep?”

Mickey groans, head twisting to the side as his legs try to hitch up higher on Ian’s waist, “So fucking full,” he says. “Fuck, like that… right there.”

“You should see yourself,” Ian pants, eyes widening as he takes in the sight underneath him, “Fuck… taking it like this, being held down. Take it so good… take it all, don’t you Mickey?”

“Y-yeah... yeah,” Mickey arched under him, eyes screwing shut as these sob-like noises fall out of his mouth on every exhale.

Ian slows down his pace until he just holds deep inside Mickey, making him keen and wriggle under him. Ian’s whole body tenses up and shakes from the sight, from the feel of the brunette tensing up around him. 

He releases Mickey’s hands as he kisses him again, resuming his deep, quick pace. Mickey is nothing but enthusiastic in the kiss, hips rocking under him, hand going to his weeping cock to stroke himself. Ian wanted to draw this out for as long as he could, but he wants, _needs_ , to come.

Mickey bites at his top lip, and he slurs out against Ian’s mouth, “Right there —yeah, fuck— right there, come on,” every other word punched out as Ian fucks him into he mattress. Ian doesn't stop as he drops his head to bite at Mickey’s shoulder, and that’s what does it. 

With a loud grunt, Mickey tenses up and comes, clawing at Ian’s backs with his free hand; Ian can tell that Mickey comes fucking hard too, by the way he scrunches up and jerks under him, from the ragged, desperate gasps for air.

Mickey breathes hard, but presses his mouth to Ian’s ear, burying a hand in his hair and tugging tightly, “You’re so good, come for me.” The words are labored and strung together, but Ian hears the sincerity in Mickey’s voice. That swell of pride is bubbling up.

“So good for me,” Mickey moans softly, so softly that Ian almost misses it.

Ian feels relief and warmth all over, and that wave, that urgency. He lets himself go with a harsh sound, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey’s wrapping his arms around him and he’s still telling Ian how good he is, and how good he fucks him, how good he makes him feel. And it’s everything to Ian. It’s everything and it’s too much; he comes so fucking hard that his eyes water and sting.

He doesn't know how long they stay there like that, on top of Mickey, trying to catch his breath. At some point, he does feel Mickey reach between them to carefully tug his condom off, and he feels wiping at his and Mickey’s chest with some sort of material.

When he finally moves his head and looks at the brunette, he gives him a tired smile before he feels a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him forward. They kiss kind of sloppily, but sweetly, heavy tongues and soft lips moving against each other.

Ian knows he shouldn't have ever kissed Mickey, but now he doesn't think he’ll ever be able to stop. He knows he shouldn't have… but he’s not sorry. Not sorry at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that was basically all smut. *shrugs* This is how I live my life.
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for all the positive feedback! I know I'm not replying to any comments, and I'm sorry! I've been really focusing on writing this and my other WIP, and idk I've been kind of weirdly anxious about this whole story and leaving replies to comments? idk if that makes sense. 
> 
> ANYWAYS just know that I'm reading them and falling in love with each and every one of you, thank you so much! It's such a motivational boost, for real.


	5. Fantasy | Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey, still lounging back like the king of the fucking world, raking his eyes down Ian’s body, then back up. Ian swallowed hard, his skin heating up. Oh fuck yes.
> 
> “Get on your knees.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the amazing feedback and love for this story! :)

He’s woken from sleep by hands sliding up the backs of his thighs. Ian grunts softly, pressing the side of his face into the pillow under him, still in that limbo of not-quite-awake. Hands slide back down his thighs, pressing lightly into his calves, before sliding back up, just under his bare ass. It feels real good. Real fucking good, almost lulling Ian back to sleep.

Whether it’s intentional or not, Ian presses his hips down against the mattress and makes a soft, muffled noise. He hears a light, breathy chuckle, and the hands slide up and over his ass to the small of his back, pressing, massaging.

It’s only then does he realize that the hands are slipping, gliding with ease across his skin, working his muscles, warming him. Some kind of oil, maybe? Ian finally blinks his eyes open and twists just enough to see Mickey, his Mickey, kneeling behind him.

“Whatcha doing down there?” Ian mumbles with a grin. 

The brunette arches brow at him, “Well, if you don’t like it…”

“I like it,” Ian says quickly, settling back where he was, tossing the pillow to the side to he could lay on his folded arms. “Continue.”

Mickey snorts a laugh and presses his knuckles into the backs of Ian’s thighs, massaging in circular motions. Ian’s breath was getting heavier with every touch, a little thrill shooting up his spine. He made a mental note to try to get more of this little hidden talent that Mickey had.

“You know,” Mickey drawled, thumbs pressing firmly into Ian’s inner thighs, rubbing slow circles there. “My fucking ass is marked up.”

Ian breathed a laugh, pressing his hips down against the mattress again, “You complaining or are you returning the favor?”

It was Mickey’s turn to laugh; he slid his hands off of Ian and stretched out besides him, keeping a hand on the small of his back. Ian turned his head to look at Mickey, breath shallow as the hand on the his back started rubbing up and down his spine.

“You’d fucking like that, wouldn't you?” Mickey asked, brow arched. “If I marked that ass all over. Probably get hard every time you sat down, huh?”

Ian closed his eyes, skin heating at the thought. Yeah. He probably would.

“Can’t though,” Mickey said softly.

He almost felt ashamed, for not being able to be marked up. Ian kept quiet, focusing on Mickey’s hand stroking up and down his back, pressing into the muscle.

“So, I’m just gonna have to take care of you another way.”

Ian opened his eyes, mouth dropping open to ask a question, but the only thing that came out was a drawn out moan. Because Mickey had slipped his slightly oiled fingers between Ian’s ass-cheeks and started rubbing slowly at that ring of nerves that really wasn't that paid attention to _that_ much. Even when or if Ian got fucked by a client, there was no… playing. Normally he had to get himself ready.

“Oh shit, you like that, huh?” Mickey grinned, eyes lighting up. “Look at you, Mr. Top. Fuck, that’s hot.”

Ian’s breath was ragged and gasping. Shit, that was good. He was genuinely surprised how fucking good it felt. He just wasn’t normally a _yeah play with my ass_ kind of guy… but _fuck_.

Mickey leaned close to kiss and mouth at the side of Ian’s neck, biting gently at his flesh as he spoke, “You’ve been so good for me. Gonna make you come so hard you won’t be able to fucking breathe.”

“Please,” Ian moaned, voice ragged and needy; a shudder ran through him.

Then Mickey moved away again, going back to the end of the bed. Ian closed his eyes, a small sound of protest when the fingers went away. But then Mickey pushed one of his legs up and to the side, and Ian felt the hot, wet touch of the brunette’s tongue dragging over him.

“Jesus —fuck!” Ian punched out, hands curling painfully in the sheets.

Mickey wetly lapped at him, prodding and sucking gently to the point where Ian’s whole body buzzed down to his bones and he could barely fucking think. His hips rocked down against the mattress, looking for friction, but beyond that, he was gone.

He felt hands grabbing onto his ass, spreading him open; Mickey’s skilled tongue dragging up the cleft, teeth skimming against the curve of the cheek, before going back to what he was doing before.

Ian babbled. A lot. Could barely come up with a single word other than _fuck_ or _yes_ ; he almost felt high and strung out, but it was sweet, so fucking sweet. He had no idea it could be quite this good. Sure, he’d been eaten out before —in the mostbasic way he could imagine. But then here’s comes Mickey, from left fucking field, just burying his face into his ass and making the whole world, the whole fucking _world_ , go upside down.

He’s so fucking _sensitive_ in the mornings, and definitely leaking all over the sheets under him. And between Mickey eating him out and his hands squeezing and rubbing at his ass, Ian was getting more and more overwhelmed. It felt so good, but he wanted more. He felt greedy. He felt that need, that _nothing is going to ease this until I come hard_ need curling over his body.

He begged for it, “Please, Mickey, please. I need… I need…”

Mickey replaced his tongue with his fingers, rubbing gently at him, “What do you need?”

But he couldn't communicate it, hips rolling down harder, seeking out the friction of the soft mattress, “I… I dunno, I…”

“This what you need?” Mickey asked.

And Ian’s mouth hung open as he felt one of Mickey’s fingers prod and breach his hole, slowly slipping inside. Again… Ian’s not new to the _things being up his ass_ thing. This is not uncharted territories and he’s not sure why he’s having such a fucking visceral reaction to this. 

But being stretched open by Mickey’s finger is doing some heavy things to his body, other than making him feel extremely keyed up and on edge. It was a dull almost burning pain and it was intrusive and made him tense up, but it was the sweetest, hottest form of all those words. It was fantastic.

“Yes,” Ian hisses out, pushing his face into the mattress, hips pushing back, seeking something more. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, wanted Mickey everywhere, touching everything —in him, on him, around him. Like his life depended on it, like he wouldn't be okay if he didn't get it.

“So tight around my finger, fuck,” Mickey murmurs. “So sensitive.”

Mickey’s free hand is rubbing at his ass-cheeks softly, then reaching for something with a cap. Ian feels the drip of oil or lube, making it easier for Mickey to slowly pump his finger in and out of him. He’s gone. Ian Gallagher has whole-heartedly left the fucking building. And the fucked up thing is, Mickey hasn't even _touched_ his prostate yet.

“How’s that?” Mickey asks him, pulling his finger out slowly, rubbing at his ring of muscles, before slipping back in. Ian can hear the knowing smile in his voice, “You like that? You’re doing good, just relax for me. Just like that. Good.”

His hands slowly, so slowly, loosen their vise-like grip on the sheets, knuckles aching so badly. There’s something deeper pulling at him, something beyond the physical that Ian can’t really put into words, and he knows that it mostly has to do with him being how he is in the morning. 

So all he can do is pant, “Yes —fuck, yes… _please_ Mickey.”

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Mickey’s voice is thick as he rubs at Ian’s insides, still not seeking out that spot of nerves. Ian’s not sure if he’d be able to handle it right now though, so he’s thankful. “Sounding like a needy bottom over there.”

At Mickey’s purring voice, Ian shudders, only able to articulate, “More.”

“Turn over,” Mickey directs him, finger gently slipping from his body.

Ian whines from the loss, but does as he’s told, trying desperately to catch his breath. Mickey is moving his legs for him, spreading them, bending his knees so his feet are flat on the mattress. Mickey slips his finger back into him —Ian arches and moans loudly— and wraps his other hand around his painfully hard erection, stroking him slowly.

Ian doesn't last long. It’s almost embarrassing. Mickey eases a second finger into him, finally pressing tightly against his prostate while he jerks him off and Ian fucking breaks in two. He gasps loudly, hands coming up to cover his face as he’s thrown off of the edge.

His eyes roll back as Mickey’s hot wet mouth swallows him down; it only takes two bobs of the brunette’s head to wreck him. Ian’s head goes all buzzy and he comes with a strangled shout. His eyes are a little wet and his body is shaking; he knows whats happening, knows he’s fucking crying — _crying? For fucking real?_ — or something close to that as he comes. But it’s just so much that it just _happens_. His chest heaves deeply as he breathes, sucking down air like it was his last.

What the fuck is happening to him? When did Ian become the guy to cry through a damn orgasm?

And then Mickey is over him, pressing a kiss to his lips, and Ian wants to warn him about his morning breath, but Mickey doesn't seem to care. The brunette kisses him like that for a while, slow and steady, bringing Ian back to center. Ian kind of _really_ likes his taste on Mickey’s tongue, likes that _mine_ feeling that curls over him again, like he’s marked him in some way.

“That was fucking amazing —did so good,” Mickey murmurs against Ian’s mouth. He leans back, his brows then creasing in a slight frown as he studies Ian’s face, “You okay?”

Ian just nods, holding on tight to Mickey, not wanting to lose contact, “M’okay.”

 

* * *

 

They binge watch shitty reality TV shows for a good portion of the morning. Ian has a feeling that Mickey’s poor ass needs a rest after yesterday, and doesn't mind the rest either, to be honest. Mickey gives him a look —rolling eyes and amused grin— when Ian brings out a blanket to the living room so they can lay together under it.

Mickey laughs loudly and makes hilarious commentary for the TV shows, that has Ian laughing along with him. The brunette is so relaxed, moving his arms and hands as he talks, laying against Ian. He’s never seen Mickey like that before and is completely taken with the display.

They make out during commercials like a couple of teenagers who should be studying. Lazy, slow kisses, hands curling in shirts, laughing against each others mouths. Ian can’t get enough of Mickey’s mouth, his taste, the way he breathes against his mouth. They kiss so much that Ian’s jaw aches and his lips are puffy and sore; Mickey is in much of the same state. 

Ian could probably kiss Mickey all day. 

 

 

* * *

 

Truthfully, it was a beautiful day. Not too hot, not too chilly. The trees towered over Ian and Mickey as they walked on an easy, worn trail. Ian reached out and brushed his fingers over tree bark and the leaves of low-hanging branches. He breathed in the fresh air and peeked over at Mickey, giving the brunette a soft smile.

“If I get fucking malaria, I really _am_ gonna hack you up in little pieces.”

Ian snorts a laugh, bending down to pick up a rock, throwing it deep into the dense trees. Mickey’s swatting at the air and his arms, face creased in a deep frown. Definitely not a wilderness guy.

“You’re not gonna get malaria,” Ian says, reaching over to lightly smack Mickey’s jean-covered ass.

“Says you, motherfucker,” Mickey grumbled some more, elbowing Ian’s arm.

“So grumpy,” Ian grinned. “You could have said no, you know. We didn't _have_ to go for a walk.”

Mickey stopped in his tracks, jaw dropping, brows skyrocketing up his forehead as he looked at Ian, “Say that again and look me in the eyes.”

Ian laughed, ducking away when the brunette reached out to pinch him, “Okay! So maybe I was a little heavy handed when I asked!”

“A _little_ heavy handed?” Mickey punched out a disbelieving laugh, “You got me all riled up then fucking sat there with my dick in your hand wouldn't move till I said yes.”

By this point, Ian was laughing so hard, his stomach hurt. He reaches for Mickey, swinging his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders and pulling him tightly against his side. With a pinch to Ian’s side, Mickey relaxes into his hold as they walk, his own arm wrapping around Ian’s waist.

Ian turns and pulls Mickey even closer to press his lips to the brunette’s mouth, quickly slipping him some tongue before releasing him, “You’re cute.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey snorts.

 

* * *

 

“That’s not what I fucking said! I might as well be talking to a fucking brick, are you kidding me right now?”

Ian really tried not to be annoyed when Mickey was on the phone with someone about his work. The guy couldn't get away from it, it seemed. It was like it just took over his whole life, even when he tried to get a weekend to himself, he couldn’t.

“Ay, fuck you too. I never said that shit,” Mickey’s voice snapped like a whip. He paused, running a hand through his hair while he listened to the response on the other end. “I know that’s how dad set shit up, but it was fucked up that way.”

Mickey sat back on the couch, phone pressed to his ear, reaching for Ian to come sit with him. It was kind of strange and endearing, the way the brunette wanted (or maybe needed? He didn't know —didn’t want to be presumptuous) Ian’s contact during these calls. Mickey spoke so harshly into the phone, but put soft hands on Ian, stroking up and down his back, burying fingers into his hair. It felt _so_ good, so he wasn’t going to complain.

“I asked for one fucking weekend, and I can’t even get that…” Mickey trailed off and Ian didn't have to turn to look at his face to know it was pulled in an angry scowl as he listened. “Fuck _off_ , man —then do your fucking job! You’re the one calling me! No, you know what, put Mandy on. I can’t fucking deal with you,” Mickey growled into the phone.

Ian was really glad that he’d never been on the receiving end of that particular voice. Mickey may have been on the shorter side, but _what the fuck_ he could get intimidating quickly.

His stomach flipped a little when Mickey, during what Ian assumed was some kind of _on hold_ deal for whoever Mandy was, leaned over and stole a soft, hot kiss. He leaned away too quickly and Ian had to stop himself from whining in protest.

“Ay,” Mickey’s voice was softer this time, but still agitated. “The fuck’s going on with your brothers, huh?” There was a pause before he scoffed, “Not right now they ain’t… I get that, but I’m not sorry. I couldn't care less that the fucker is gone… yeah, I know… I know… fuck, Mandy, I asked for a weekend. A fucking _weekend_ and they can’t…”

Ian closed his eyes and leaned his head back into Mickey’s touch. He felt like a damn cat, his scalp being rubbed and scratched before Mickey moved his hand down to the back of his neck, curling around there and rolling his fingers against the skin, working out knots. Jesus this guy and his fucking hands were going to be the death of him.

After another long pause, Mickey let out a frustrated sigh, “No, that’s _not_ what I fucking told Joey before I left… okay, whatever, just fucking write this shit down… I ain’t yelling at you, bitch, fuck! —Well _now_ , I am yes. Very fucking perceptive of you. You got a pen yet? Write this shit down and then make Joey fucking eat it, maybe he’ll absorb the shit _that_ way.”

Trying not to snort a laugh, Ian hung his head between his shoulders and tucked his lips between his teeth. He was trying his damnedest to focus on Mickey’s hand slipping under the back of his shirt and lightly raking his fingernails down his back.

“We need _ten_ from Koval, not five, send Iggy — _tonight_ ,” Mickey said slowly, “Iggy knows how to fucking deal with Koval. And someone needs to pay Wolanski a visit today sort _that_ shit out, last thing we need is that motherfucker poking around —and if he’s got a problem with how we’re running things now, he needs to come to _me_. Tony and Joey need to start their rounds tomorrow morning, and that shit needs to be fucking done _tomorrow_ , all of it.”

Ian can hear the stress starting to boil over in Mickey’s voice. Despite not wanting to remove himself away from the soft touches, Ian stands from the couch, reaching to run his hand over Mickey’s dark hair as he walks past him. Blue eyes look up at him in question, so Ian doubles back to take that soft-touched tattooed hand in his own, drop a kiss to the center of the palm, then continues on his way.

The master bathroom had a huge soaking tub. And Ian didn't know a lot about bath shit, but he rummaged around the cabinets while hot water was gushing into the tub, looking for something to throw in there. The bathroom was sparse on toiletries, but Ian managed to find a container of Epsom Salt in the back of the cabinet under the sink. Not terribly sexy _but_ effective.

“Uhm,” Ian looks between the container of salt and the tub of water before he shrugs, opens the container and digs his hand in. He scooped out as much as his hand could fit and threw it into the rising hot water, nodding to himself. He throws in another half-handful, just for good measure.

While he’s still waiting for the tub to fill up enough, Ian attempts to set the mood, but he can’t find candles, so it’s less romantic than what he was going for. It’s mostly in jest though, because he knows what he’ll get when Mickey walks into the bathroom to see the dimmed lights and filled tub and waiting towels neatly folded on the counter. Mickey isn’t exactly Mr. Romance, despite his soft touches and words he moans against Ian’s ear or into his mouth.

Ian then hears his name being called from the living room, so he sighs heavily, turns the taps off, and makes his way back to Mickey. He was really hoping that the brunette would mosey on in after him, but guess not.

Mickey’s lounged back on the couch, rubbing his hand over his hair when Ian gets there. He looks stressed and all pent up, so Ian stands behind the couch and grips onto Mickey’s shoulders, rolling his hands, massaging the knots in the muscles there.

“Where’d you go?” Mickey mumbled, tilting his head back to look at Ian.

Ian leaned down to brush his lips across Mickey’s, “Taking care of something.”

“Mm,” Mickey hummed, waving a hand, directing Ian to come around the couch as he said, “Come here.”

“Yes _sir_ ,” Ian teased, sliding his hands off Mickey’s shoulders to do as he was told. He stood in front of Mickey and grinned down at him, tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He dug his toes into the soft carpet hinder his feet and wet his lips, watching the way Mickey was just watching him right back.

Mickey, still lounging back like the king of the fucking world, raking his eyes down Ian’s body, then back up. Ian swallowed hard, his skin heating up. Oh _fuck_ yes.

“Get on your knees.” 

And Ian had never dropped so quickly in his fucking life, the carpet under him just barely softening his sting of his knees hitting the floor. His mouth watered, eyes locked on Mickey as something curled and flared inside of him; he could already feel himself starting to tighten and harden up for the brunette.

Despite his relaxed position, Ian could feel the tension radiating off of Mickey. This mix of frustration and want; he could practically taste it in the air.

“You waiting for a hand written invitation?” the corner of Mickey’s mouth pulled up in a half smirk as his eyes dropped to his lap.

Ian smiles at him wickedly and shakes his head, going right for the waistband of Mickey’s sweatpants. Carefully, slowly, he tugs them down, barely aided by the brunette’s slightly lifted hips. He bit his lip to keep from making a snarky comment about the lack of cooperation, and ran his fingers up and down pale, bare legs. He pushed them apart wide enough to settle between and brush his fingers over the soft, sensitive flesh of the inner thighs, biting his lips when Mickey sighed from the touches.

He arched a brow at Mickey and received one in return as he went for Mickey’s boxer-briefs next, slowly tugging them off and tossing them to the side with the black sweatpants. Mickey was half-hard and waiting for Ian’s touch, which Ian was more than delighted to give him. 

One hand stroking Mickey to life, the other resting on the brunette’s thigh, Ian kept his eyes where he knew they were supposed to be: On Mickey. He felt Mickey swell and harden under his hand, watched his eyes flutter, threatening to close and the way his chest rose and fellwith every breath.

Mickey reached out and brushed his fingers through Ian’s hair; he leaned into the touch, savoring it, before leaning forward to drag his tongue along that vein that ran up the underside of Mickey’s cock. The brunette let out a shaky breath and continued to touch Ian’s hair, playing with it, while he kept dragging his tongue and lips across the heated, swollen flesh.

“Good,” Mickey breathed softly, “Just like that.”

Ian moaned softly from his words; he was so fucking hard, straining against his boxers and sweatpants. He brought his free hand over to cup and massage Mickey’s balls — _first_ , to make him feel good, to draw out more of those soft noises —and _second_ , because if he didn't keep that hand busy, it was going to go straight to his own dick.

He dropped his mouth open and worked Mickey into his mouth, swallowing him down until his eyes stung, unable to stop the moan from how good he felt and tasted. Mickey’s fingers tightened in his hair, keeping a firm hold while Ian worked him with his mouth.

“Fuck,” Mickey hissed, rocking his hips up; he tugged Ian’s head back just enough so he was looking at him again. “Keep those eyes on me when you do that. Wanna see those eyes.”

It was so fucking quiet in the house, except for the soft wet sounds of Ian’s mouth, and Mickey’s moans. All Ian could focus on was the feel of his mouth being filled and stretched open, the look in Mickey’s eyes as he looked right back down at him. Everything else faded away, didn't even fucking matter. Because Ian saw this flicker of pride or something, something heavy, in Mickey’s eyes and that was literally the only thing that gave a shit about.

Ian moved his hands to rest on his thighs while Mickey took over. He held the top of Ian’s hair tightly and stood from the couch, telling Ian to keep his mouth open, “S’like that, so I can fuck that mouth.”

He knew for a fact that he was leaking all over the inside of his boxers; he was so fucking turned on and hard that it hurt. Ian moaned and breathed around around Mickey’s cock, hands curling into fists to keep from touching himself.

“This getting you off?” Mickey grunted, slowly pushing his cock to the back of Ian’s throat. “Being good for me, letting me fuck your mouth like this?”

Ian gasped for breath when Mickey pulled out of his mouth, “Yes,” he panted, dropping his messy mouth open again for more. His whole body pulsed with a flush, wanting to be even better for Mickey. So, so fucking good.

Mickey pushed back inside Ian’s mouth, rocking his hips, fucking him slow and deep, “Better catch up.”

It took a second for Ian to understand what Mickey meant, but when it finally hit, his hand went immediately into his sweatpants, slipping into his boxers to wrap around his aching, leaking erection. Ian moaned roughly around Mickey, stroking himself while Mickey fucked his mouth. 

The way Mickey was looking at him, holding onto his hair, rocking his hips faster, pushing deeper until Ian’s eyes started watering and he almost gagged… it was hot, too fucking hot. Mickey kept telling him how good he felt and how good he was, telling him how good he looked. Ian didn't want it to stop. Call him an attention whore, that was fine, maybe he was. But, whatever motivated this _need_ for Mickey to tell him he was good… Ian got lost in it, completely swept away. 

He knew his spit was building up around Mickey’s cock and dribbling down his chin in sticky, gross ropes. Didn’t give a _fuck_. He moaned so loudly, so desperately as he jerked himself off; he was muffled and almost comical. Didn’t give a _fuck_. His eyes were watering, running to the point where Mickey had to wipe away the tears and check to make sure he was okay. _Still_ didn’t give a _fuck_. 

Nothing mattered but making Mickey feel good, making him proud —and easing the ache that his hand was wrapped around.

 

* * *

 

Mickey laughed, looking at Ian, then back at the tub, “This is what you were doing?”

“Mmhm,” Ian hummed. “Water is probably cold now though, so…”

He watched as Mickey walked to the tub and stuck his hand into the water, giving him a considering little shrug, “It’s warm… ish.”

“So, it’s cold.”

“It’s fucking cold,” Mickey nodded.

Ian sighed, trying to ignore the disappointed pull in his gut, “Well, I tried.”

“Well,” Mickey backed Ian up against the edge of the bathroom counter, pressing close so he could brush his lips against his neck; Ian shuddered and wrapped his arms around the brunette’s waist. “Lemme make it up to you.”

“I’m listening,” Ian closed his eyes and grinned. 

He was pretty sure that no matter what, he wouldn't ever get tired of this guy. His body had just been on cloud nine, coming hard with Mickey’s dick pushing to the back of his throat, not even ten minutes ago. And here he was, already wanting more. Jesus.

“Gotta shower first,” Mickey said. “Pretty sure we smell.”

Ian grinned, dipping his head down to kiss Mickey hard, “I like it.”

“You can beat my ass tonight,” Mickey offered, wetting his lips and one of those _how ‘bout that?_ grins. “Free reign.”

He groaned in the back of his throat and reached down to grab at the shorter man’s ass, two hard handfuls. Mickey pressed close and bit at the crook of his neck, a rough exhale blowing across Ian’s sensitive skin.

“How’s that sound?” Mickey prompted.

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

Ian slipped outside while Mickey was finishing up in the shower. He hasn't checked his phone this whole time he’s been out of Chicago, and sees that Chris has called a couple times and texted, basically making sure he was still _alive_.

“Sorry,” Ian says as soon as Chris picks up. 

“The fuck have you been? It's fucking Sunday and I haven't heard shit from you.”

At the sound of Chris’ slightly angry, slightly worried voice, reality dumps onto Ian like a bucket of ice water. He sighs heavy, leaning his elbows on the patio’s railing, looking out into the trees.

“I just haven't checked my phone,” Ian explained, “It’s been on silent. I’m sorry.”

Chris makes an agitated grunting noise, “Been busy, then?”

“Yeah,” Ian closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn't want to talk to Chris, doesn't want to think about tomorrow… going home, going back to his routine.

“S’what I like to hear,” Chris chuckled. “No misbehaving, right? He’s being good?”

“Yeah,” Ian says again.

“ _You_ being good?”

Ian gets a sour taste in his mouth from Chris’ words —being good. He knows, logically, that Chris doesn't mean it the same way Mickey means it. He knows that Chris doesn't feel any attraction to him or vice versa. He just doesn't like hearing that from his boss —his fucking _pimp_.

That and the whole fact that no, Ian was _not_ being good (in his eyes at least; kissing and getting more attached —not feeling sorry for these things, but _welcoming_ these things) was hanging over his head; that was _not_ helping the situation. 

“Of course,” Ian sighs.

“You’re coming back tomorrow morning, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian sighs, nodding his head.

They hang up shortly after that, giving Ian enough time to slip back inside the house and realize that he’s fucking starving.

 

* * *

 

Mickey takes Ian out for dinner. It’s nothing too fancy, way out where they are, but still, it’s nice. A little mom and pop Italian place with “fucking amazing” lasagna, according to Mickey. Mickey is a little bit of a foodie, in his own right. Ian loves that.

There’s checkered vinyl tablecloths and fake plants everywhere, and each table has one of those paper napkin dispensers in the center. Honestly, it’s probably the nicest place that Ian has been to in a while. Clients don’t take him out. The handful of “boyfriend experiences” he’s done have been solely just in a stuffy hotel room, ordering room service. Maybe a trip to the hotel bar. 

Even though the restaurant is quiet and their waitress is very sweet (and totally giving Mickey flirty eyes), Ian can tell that the brunette is a little wary about the situation -possibly seeing someone he knows personally. They’re in public. Ian just dutifully swallowed down everything he gave him, not even an hour ago. And Mickey is sitting on a hard wooden chair, on some fucking _beautiful_ bruises from yesterday.

There’s nothing more that Ian wants than to reach across and grab Mickey’s hand to make him feel better. But he can’t do that; they have to sit there like bros and mindlessly check their phones in the short pauses of inane conversation. Because Ian is an old friend from out of town. And that’s just the way it was.

While they’re eating though, Mickey caught Ian’s eyes for a second before going back to moving food around on his plate, “So what’s that mean? High highs and low lows. Shit, if you don’t mind…”

Ian swallowed a mouthful of food (the lasagna _was_ fucking amazing, by the way) while he regrouped, lost on the question for a second. He took a drink of his water and gave a little smile, “I don’t mind. Highs are… like high energy —it’s called mania.”

“So, what, like being in a really good mood?”

Ian tilted his head to the side and shrugged, “Yeah, kinda. I mean, it’s different for everyone, I guess. There’s like… levels. From feeling really good about _everything_ and yourself —just feeling like… you can do _anything_. Then you got where it can go into self medicating and making impulsive choices you normally wouldn't, or to… climbing on the roof and thinking you’re a fucking bird.”

Ian shook his head, pushing the thought of his mother away.

“Damn,” Mickey sighed. “S’rough.”

Ian nodded, “Yeah, but… like you said, _is what it is_. I take my meds, I stay pretty clean —nothing stronger than weed. Pretty steady five months so far —I’m hoping these meds stick for a while, I like ‘em.”

“Do they stop working or something?”

“Eh,” Ian shrugged, taking a drink of his water. “I had to go through a bunch of cocktails to find the sweet spot. But… bodies are fickle. Sometimes after a while you need to, you know, reevaluate, or whatever.”

Mickey frowned, almost like he was annoyed, “They can’t just get it right the first fucking time?”

Ian breathed a laugh, “It’s not a perfect science, Mick.”

“Should be. S’tead of making you a fucking lab-rat. Bullshit,” he grunted.

Ian took another drink of his water to hide his grin and the redness that he knew was accompanying the heat in his face. Mickey getting all frustrated over him having to go through different medications… it was surprising, and this little part of him couldn't help but be really kind of flattered from the concern. 

He knew he maybe shouldn't be flattered or whatever by that —by Mickey acting like it was part of _his_ problem too. But there was something so comforting about it, like the brunette was in his corner, on the offense, ready to battle with him. Maybe he was looking too far into it, but Ian was ever the dreamer, so he couldn't really help it.

“So… the lows, is that like depression?”

Ian nodded, “Yeah. That can get pretty dark, but it depends on the person, like with the mania. But when it gets real bad, it just takes over and uh… sometimes there’s people that don’t, you know, make it out. If you know what I mean.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey breathed. He rested his hand on the table, tattooed fingers curling and straightening out, almost like he was reaching for Ian, but not. “And it just… cycles?”

Ian nodded again, “Pretty much. I mean, there’s times when it’s like… the middle ground, or whatever, where you’re kind of normal. But you’re always on that roller-coaster. Meds just try to flatten it out.”

Ian’s never thought he was the best at explaining the ins and outs of bipolar. And normally, talking about this would make him a little uncomfortable. Not that he was necessarily ashamed of being bipolar —he’d been through that, he’d been through the shame and the denial and all the bullshit. But just because… it was so raw. It was so _real_ and Ian was just exposing this part of himself, so willingly, to Mickey. 

It made him uncomfortable because he was kind of glad, in a way, that Mickey was seeming to take interest in him like this. This private, personal part of his life. And he wanted Mickey in that part, he wanted Mickey to know, to understand.

“So, you don’t have any highs or lows anymore? You don't go dark like that?” 

“I’m pretty leveled out,” Ian replies. "Pretty normal."

It was just so much less now —in intensity, and frequency. Weeks of mania simmered down to a handful of high-energy days where, in all honesty, he got shit _done_. He kind of liked the medicated mania, in that respect.  Days trapped in bed, unable to function turned into a couple of _blah_ days, feeling quiet and a kinda down, but manageable. That was the thing — _manageable_. He honestly never thought he’d get to that place. 

“Whatever the fuck _normal_ is, right?” Mickey breathed a soft laugh. 

“Right,” Ian laughed with him.

 

* * *

 

Ian, feeling stupid as ever, realizes finally — _finally_ — that he is setting himself up for failure. Because he’s attracted to his client. Deeply attracted to him… on an emotional level. He’s probably known for a while, but it wasn’t cemented until they were driving back from the restaurant and while Mickey had been driving, he had one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on Ian’s thigh. And it was such a small act and so inconsequential that Ian was surprised that that’s what did it. That’s when he realized that he wanted it to be _real_. 

When they walked through the front door, Ian couldn't help himself. He pushed Mickey against the hallway wall and kissed him, holding either side of his face, pressing his mouth hard against his. He earns a startled groan and hands curling around the backs of his shoulders, pulling him even closer. The brunette tastes like the peppermint candy he snagged on the way out of the restaurant.

Ian doesn't want this night to be over. This night ending means that when he wakes up in the morning, it’ll be the day that the fantasy ends. He doesn't want to fall asleep. He doesn’t want to forget the way kissing Mickey feels, the way it makes everything else around them shut the fuck up.

He doesn't want to go home. Because this isn’t Pretty Woman. This is real life. And in Mickey’s real life, that doesn't include being exclusive with another man, let alone a hooker. And in Ian’s real life, he has a pimp waiting for him back in Chicago, who probably already has other clients lined up for him this week. Other clients he has to fuck, or get fucked by.

So yeah, he’s going to savor this for as long as he can.

He really doesn’t know why he pulls back and says it, he's just digging himself further into the ground, “It’s my rule.”

Mickey, breathing hard, hands slipping from gripping Ian so roughly, “What? The fuck’re you talking about?”

“Kissing —not kissing on the mouth— it was my rule, it wasn’t ever my boss’,” Ian doesn't think saying Chris’ name right at this particular moment was a good idea.

Mickey’s quiet for a second, “Okay.”

Cutting off a hot, heavy make-out session for… _what_ , exactly? Where was this supposed to go? Ian sighed, taking a small step back. All he can do is repeat his words, “It was my rule.”

“Why do you have that rule?” Mickey asks.

Jesus Christ what an ill-planned, spur of the moment idea this was. Ian feels on the edge of mortified about his reasoning, all of a sudden, like it’s stupid. Maybe it is stupid. It's just kissing right? Just two fucking mouths mushing up against each other.

“Ian,” He feels Mickey’s hand grab at his chin, making him look at him again, where the truth is. “Why do you have that rule?”

Ian sighs, “Because… it’s personal. Kissing it personal.”

Mickey nods in understanding, carefully dropping his hand from Ian’s chin, “If you don't want to do that anymore, that’s okay—”

“I do,” Ian cuts him off in a rush. 

There’s this anticipated dread curling deep in Ian’s belly as he runs a hand over his hair, and sighs for what seemed like the millionth time that night. Couldn't back out now, could he? 

“I want to. All the time… for a while, I’ve wanted to. Because I’ve been… _feeling_ things for you, and I know I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to be the fantasy, but it’s getting all mixed up because I… fucking _like_ you. A lot. I _care_ about you —more than I’ve cared about someone… ever. Like this. And I want to know... everything about you. And just... _be_ with you.”

Mickey’s quiet, the house is deathly quiet, and it feels like they’ve been standing in that hallway forever. Ian can’t even look at him, so instead he looks down at his shoes and shakes his head, mad at himself. Just can’t keep his fucking mouth shut, can he? It was all out there now. He might as well have just literally vomited all over the expensive floor. That probably, _honestly_ , would have been better.

“I’m in a really fucked up position, in my life, right now,” Mickey finally says. His voice is gentle.

Ian nods, “I know.” And he does know. He knows that he can’t really expect anything to come from this. Mickey, in whatever business he’s in —a business that Ian is pretty fucking sure revolves around a lot of _organization_ and _crime_ — can’t _be_ with Ian. 

He knows this. He understands this. Logically, he gets it.

“I’m sorry,” Ian adds, feeling his throat tighten up and his eyes sting. Fuck, he was not going to do this. He wasn’t going to be the weepy prostitute at a clients house. No. He stuffed it down and cleared his throat, nodding again. “Shouldn’t have said… I’m sorry. Fuck.”

This wasn’t Pretty Woman. Mickey wasn’t going to fall for the guy he pays to fuck.    


Mickey had a wife. Mickey had a kid. Mickey had responsibilities. And Ian? It was enough to laugh at. Ian sold his body for the right price.

His whole job was centered around being someone’s dirty secret. And Ian could compartmentalize, he could be fine with being the dirty secret to a _client_. But to someone he cared about —to someone he’d walk away from escorting for…? It was a setup for absolute failure and heartbreak. He couldn't do this. Especially when these feelings were one-sided. He needed to wake the fuck up. Mickey was the client. He was the whore.

“Ian…” Mickey sighed.

No, he really couldn't do this. Ian shook his head again, not wanting to hear how Mickey _had a good time with him, but…_

He walked away from the brunette, needing some space. But he never got that space, because Mickey had grabbed his elbow hard and pulled him back to stand in front of him.

“Look at me,” his client said, voice soft but stern.

Ian did as he was told, holding his breath; Mickey was looking at him with these hardened eyes that were quickly softening, his brows drawn sharply together, slowly relaxing. When Mickey put his hands on either side of Ian’s face, he has a hard time not closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.

“Gonna say this _one_ time, so fucking pay attention,” Mickey said. “Ain’t saying it again.”

Ian nodded, heart lodging squarely in his throat.

“I was drowning my whole fucking life and I thought that was how it was gonna be,” Mickey said clearly, blue eyes locked on Ian’s. He didn’t pause, didn’t get all weird about his words. “Then you come in and I can fucking breathe. And I don’t know what the fuck this is or what we do about it, but I don’t want to let it go. I just know I want you around me all the time. Just you.”

Ian could feel all the tension and fear leave his body, like he was shedding a skin. That tension and fear was replaced with this warmth, starting low in his belly and spreading out all over until it touched the tips of his fingers and toes.

“Yeah?” he asked, all breath, barely any voice.

Mickey quirked his eyebrows and nodded.

Ian leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mickey’s. It was like the first time they kissed. Chaste, almost. Soft, just meeting together and breathing each other in. Ian’s stomach flipped and clenched and fluttered all at the same time. 

It was the worst situation for the two of them. But they were both right there, together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I do not have bipolar disorder. But I wanted Mickey to take an interest, you know, to show a more _emotional_ concern/attachment to Ian. I really honestly tried to put bipolar into laymen's terms and I tried to get it right... if I didn't, I apologize. 
> 
> Also... possibly only one more chapter.  
> How are these boys gonna work this out?


	6. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I fucking know that, okay?” the brunette said through clenched teeth, “And I don’t wanna talk about that shit right now—”
> 
> “We have to,” Ian cut him off. “We have to because this is what the situation is. I fuck guys for a living and you’re in some kind of business that isn't okay with us, with who we are... so much so, that you have to keep living this lie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not as long as the other chapters.  
> There's a reason for that. Bear with me.  
> I love you guys so much :))

Clothes got left behind; first it was Mickey’s jacket. Then Ian’s jacket. Then both of their shirts. Mickey’s belt. In the doorway to the bedroom, two sets of shoes. Pants puddled on the floor right at the foot of the bed. It was slow, but somehow desperate. Ian couldn't get close enough. Mickey held him hard, moaned into his mouth.

Ian caged Mickey under him on the bed, rocking against him, the only thing separating them were two thin cotton layers of their boxers. He gasped and whined as he pressed against the brunette, his Mickey, barely hearing the opening and closing of the nightstand drawer, too completely focused on tasting the skin of Mickey’s throat.

He took exactly three seconds to lean back, pull Mickey’s boxers off. Another five seconds to get his own underwear off, before he could get back to what he was doing. Ian took Mickey’s leaking erection into his hand and stroked, using the brunette’s own lubrication. Mickey arched and shuddered his name.

“Ian,” Mickey whispered, hips rocking into Ian’s grip. “Please.”

“Tell me again,” Ian rasped, taking the tube of lube from Mickey’s shaking grip. He stopped stroking Mickey to slick up his own shaking fingers and get the shorter man ready for him. 

Mickey had breathed a protest from the loss of contact, “Told you, only once.”

“Just the last part,” Ian, close to begging, kept his voice quiet as he reached down between Mickey’s spread legs and brushed a slick finger against the tight ring of nerves. 

Even though Mickey didn't give him what he wanted right away, Ian kept prodding and wetly rubbing him, entranced by the low moans his brunette was making. Finally he pushed in one finger, rubbing his insides and pulling more noises from Mickey.

“Just you,” Mickey finally gasped, holding onto Ian, pulling him down for a kiss. “Just want you.”

Those words were everything to Ian. He moaned into Mickey’s mouth while he prepped him. He opened Mickey up for him, adding a second finger, drawing out desperate moans, adding a third, completely hypnotized by the way Mickey was kissing him and making these _sounds_ that were drowning out the slick noises of Ian opening him up. Those fucking sounds of want and lust and need, and it’s was almost too much.

Ian’s counting seconds in his head to focus, so he doesn't mess up and bury himself inside of Mickey without a condom. It’s so fucking tempting, wanting to feel that raw heat, to fill him up, marking him from the inside. But he keeps a clear head, he can’t do that. It takes four painstakingly long seconds to ease his fingers from Mickey. Another Five for Mickey to tear the condom package open. Another six for Mickey to roll it onto him. Three to slick himself up and wipe his hand on the covers.

He crawls over Mickey, resting right at his entrance, just looking down at him, letting the moment soak into his bones. Mickey’s staring at Ian and Ian’s staring right back. Both of them, silent as ever, have this silent conversation that Ian can’t even begin to explain. But even still, Ian wants to hear it out loud. Needs to hear it.

“Say it again,” he tone is begging and needy.

Mickey swallows hard, tongue wetting his lips, “Just you.”

He inhales deep, dropping his head to press his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck as he easily pushes into achingly hot tightness; simultaneous, heavy breaths escape them as Mickey wraps his legs around Ian’s waist, and Ian lets his full weight lay on top of Mickey, caging him there, not letting even a breath separate them.

They fuck slow, kiss even slower. Ian just barely moves his hips, but he know’s he’s pressed right against Mickey’s prostate, from the way the brunette is making this constant stream of noise against his mouth. And he’s so tense, his body tight and hard like a rock under Ian, like he’s holding his breath and afraid to let go.

So Ian reaches to his sides to take Mickey’s legs from around him, settling him to just lay there and let Ian take care of him, to let Ian do this. “S’okay,” he whispers against his mouth, “S’okay, just relax, I got you.”

“Not gonna last,” Mickey whispers back, voice tight.

“Then don’t,” Ian says, “Let me do this, let go. Breathe.”

It’s kind of fucking beautiful, the way Mickey relaxes his body and stares up at Ian. He feels this rush over him as he moves slow, rocking into the brunette, kissing and mouthing at his collarbones and neck, up to his mouth. 

When Mickey comes, he does it untouched. Gasping Ian’s name into his mouth; Ian swallows it down, basking in the way he says his name, in the feel of tattooed fingers brushing into his hair. Mickey’s shaking and moaning low under him, saying those two words again, _just you_ , again and again, taking Ian over, pushing him closer to that edge.

Ian holds the side of Mickey’s face in one hand, elbow pressing into the mattress at the brunette’s side; he keeps that eye contact, every once in a while dropping a soft kiss to open, full lips. Mickey looks so good under him, blue eyes staring up, breathing hard, letting out soft, barely audible moans.

The man has ruined him for anyone else. Such a fucking cliche, but there it is. The closer Ian gets to being thrown off that edge, the more he realizes that Mickey’s just… it. He’s it. Three more pushes and Ian falls, sealing his lips over Mickey’s tasting the inside of his mouth as he shudders and moans through his climax.

Ian stays on top of Mickey, face buried in the crook of his back, sighing softly when he feels the shorter man wrap his arms around him and stroke idly at his back. He doesn't want to move, not only because he’s exhausted, but because he’s afraid to ruin this. He’s afraid that if he moves, then everything that just happened… didn't happen.

“You’re so good for me,” Mickey says so softly against his ear.

Finally, Ian musters the strength to prop himself up, kiss Mickey one more time, and slide off the bed to get a warm, wet wash cloth and throw away the condom. He cleans them both off and gets back into bed, pulling Mickey against his side so the brunette rests his head on his chest. Ian likes that a lot.

“I don’t know how to make this work,” Mickey finally says. 

Ian just nods, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. He has no fucking clue either.

 

* * *

 

Ian got his bath after all. Being woken up in the early morning almost put him in a bad mood, but when Mickey shuffled him into the bathroom to a full, steaming tub, he couldn't help but smile. He climbed in with Mickey, laughing when the brunette lit up a joint and offered it to him. They leaned back on opposite sides of the tub, legs tangled together, passing the joint back and forth.

The hot water relaxed his aching muscles and the weed relaxed him even more. A weekend of fucking takes a toll, after all. Between the both of them, they fucking needed this.

Ian sighed out a cloud of smoke, watching it float upwards towards the bathroom ceiling, passing it back to Mickey.

The water softly moves as Mickey does. Ian wets his lips as he watches the brunette coming towards him. Mickey pulls on the joint one last time before he gently stubs it out on the edge of the bathtub. They grin at each other, Ian reaching for Mickey, pulling him close, sealing their lips together so Ian can inhale on Mickey’s exhale.

That floaty buzz curls over Ian, sinking into his skin, making him feel all light and relaxed; it’s been a couple weeks since he’s smoked, but he never gets tired of that feeling when it hits. Especially when there’s a full, soft mouth pressed to his neck.

“This is nice,” Ian whispered, dipping his hands under the water to gently grab Mickey’s ass, getting him to straddle his lap.

Mickey hummed in response, kissing and mouthing at his skin, one hand reaching up to push into his hair, rubbing at his scalp. Ian almost forgot how good it felt to fool around when you were buzzed, how every touch was like when a pebble got dropped into a still lake. That good feeling echoing through him, washing over every nerve ending.

Ian grinned, letting his mind wander, “You still owe me.”

Mickey popped his head up with a frown, “The fuck’re you talking about?”

Ian squeezed his two handfuls of the brunette’s ass, “Said I could beat your ass. Free reign.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey rolled his eyes. “It’s too fucking early for that shit.”

“I know,” Ian grinned, sitting up a little straighter, bringing their bodies against each other tightly, “I’m just pointing that out. You still owe me.”

Mickey grinned back at him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as he finally — _finally_ — pressed a kiss to Ian’s mouth, sucking and nipping at his top lip, “You’re gonna fuck me right up, aren’t you?” he murmured through a laugh.

“Oh, baby, you have no idea,” Ian promised.

 

* * *

 

They look kind of ridiculous. Mickey pulled out two of these obnoxiously fluffy white robes from a closet, so obviously the had to put them on. 

So the two were back on the back patio, eating their breakfast of toast and coffee and fruit, _again_ —because the choices were limited at the house and the thought of going out was just not something either one of them was interested in. Ian had his feet pulled up in Mickey’s lap; Mickey had his free hand resting on Ian’s shin, tracing over the skin absentmindedly. Basically they were getting in touch with their inner  _sixty-five year old retired gay couple living in Miami_ , and it was fantastic.

He doesn’t want to go home. He wants to stay in that house, in the middle of the woods, forever. Just him and Mickey. How did he fall so hard like this, so quickly? How was that even real? Sure’s it was building for six months, but… it just seemed so surreal. But good. So good.

He doesn't know what’s going to happen when they get back to Chicago. They don’t know how they’re gonna make this work. But they _want_ it to work. Because Mickey feels the same way that Ian does. Mickey wants Ian. More than just to fuck, more then just to kiss and snuggle under blankets with. He wants _him_. Like Ian is enough for him. Just Ian. It’s so important, because Ian wants Mickey like that too.

He’d walk away from fucking for money, for Mickey. He would, and it kind of scares him, in a way. Because if he walks away… he doesn't really know how he’ll make enough money to keep on track. And it seemed so fucking materialistic and stupid, and he hated it. 

“I’m trying to save up for college,” Ian says, kind of suddenly, breaking the silence. “A good college. That’s my something better, that’s why… I do what I do.”

“Okay,” Mickey draws his brows in confusion.

“Mickey…” Ian sighs, taking his feet off of his lap to lean forward, resting his elbows on the table so he can focus and look at Mickey. “I fuck guys for a living.”

It wasn’t needed to be said and Ian hated that he said it, but that was the fucking reality. Mickey pulled a face; Ian could practically see the walls starting to shoot up around Mickey, could practically hear his whole _self_ shut down.

“I fucking know that, okay?” the brunette said through clenched teeth, “And I don’t wanna talk about that shit right now—”

“We have to,” Ian cut him off. “We have to because this is what the situation is. I fuck guys for a living and you’re in some kind of business that isn't okay with us, with who we are... so much so, that you have to keep living this lie.”

Dark eyebrows shot up Mickey’s forehead, “You think I’m not aware of the fucking situation? Jesus Christ, Ian, I know how fucked up this is. After this, I gotta go home to a wife and kid I never fucking wanted in the first place!" As soon as Mickey said it, he pulled a face like he wanted to punch himself. He continued a little softer, "That's not... _fuck_. Ain't the kids fault -ain't even her fault. Fuck. I just...”

"I know," Ian said, so Mickey didn't have to talk about something he obviously didn't want to talk about anymore. He didn't have to be a fucking genius to figure out that there was a lot of stress and pain that Mickey went through when it came to talking about his wife and child, a lot of conflicting feelings of obligation and self-preservation. He couldn't even imagine dealing with that. "I'm sorry... I know."

“I’ll figure something out,” Mickey sighed, rubbing at his temples with the tips of his fingers. “I just need a little time, but I’ll figure it out.”

Ian tried to be happy with that answer, he really did. And even though he wasn’t, he still just said, “Okay.”

“Since my old man died, I’ve been trying to cut some business ties,” Mickey sighed. “We’ve been dealing with a certain kind of people for a long fucking time and once I can separate my family and my business from those people… I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Ian touched the lip of his coffee cup and took a deep breath, “How long?”

Mickey shrugged, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his robe pocket. “Six months?”

“Jesus,” Ian murmured, leaning back in his chair. 

It was quiet for a little while, with both of them just looking at each other. Ian wanted to say all these things, but he didn't have the words. It looked like Mickey was going through that too. It wasn’t fucking fair. Like hell it would ever work out that Ian would keep working _and_ date Mickey in secret — the first six months never being able to go out, never being able to be involved in his life. That would end quicker than it started, and it would end horribly.

And then Ian just got _angry_. His face tightened in an irritated scowl as he got up from his chair and walked away. He ignored Mickey calling for him, making a beeline for the bedroom to strip out of his robe and pull on clothes.

“Ian!” he heard the call from the living room, “Don’t fucking walk… fuck!”

This was beyond just fucked up. He fucking… _damnit_. He probably loved this guy and because of stupid shit like business and doing things right, being responsible (as adults are supposed to do), they couldn't fucking be together?

_Yes_ , Ian Gallagher was all but having an irrational, pointless fucking temper tantrum, because he couldn't get his way. _Yes_ , he knew this was happening _as_ it was happening. Mickey obviously had to do things a certain way, for certain reasons that were probably a little above Ian’s pay-grade.

He tugged his jeans on, not even bothering with underwear, not knowing what his next step was beyond pulling on a shirt and running his fingers through his hair. He had no fucking plan, he was just really overwhelmed by the fucked-up-ness of the situation and looking at Mickey, having Mickey so close when Ian couldn't _really_ have him, not the way he wanted him, not perfectly… fuck.

“Ay,” Micky came into the bedroom, eyes hard and fierce, “Don’t fucking walk away from me.”

“Why, because you paid for me? Weekend ownership,” Ian spat, immediately regretting it. He didn't even think, just let it fly out of his stupid mouth. It didn't even fucking mean anything.

Mickey’s hard blue eyes barely softened, “That what you think of me?”

“No,” Ian said, shaking his head. “I don’t. I don’t.”

“Are you done?” Mickey asked, making a general gesture to Ian’s outburst.

Ian just let out a long sigh and nodded.

“I can figure something out,” Mickey said, coming closer to Ian, “Okay? You wanna keep working, save up more money, while I get this business shit settled… fine.”

“Fine?” Ian huffed a bitter laugh. They were close but not touching; Ian could smell the coffee and cigarettes on Mickey’s breath, could see that little vein in his temple get all tensed up. “Ten minutes ago, you didn't even wanna talk about that, now you’re fine with it?”

“I’m not fine with it,” Mickey said. “But I’ll fucking deal if I have to. _Been_ dealing with it, what’s the difference now?”

Hot, white hot, heat just flooded over Ian’s face, “The difference is I kissed you, and I don't want to be with anyone else. I don’t want to fuck some other guy! I don’t wanna fucking lie anymore! You said you just want me —I just want _you_.”

Mickey got real quiet, lips parted as he stared at Ian. He reached ups and hooked a hand around the back of Ian’s neck, gently pulling him down. Their lips ghosted each other’s, breath hot and coming out shallow.

Only, the moment was squashed by a shrill ringing sound coming from Mickey’s robe pocket. Ian laughed with absolutely no humor and stepped away. Mickey hissed a curse and grabbed for his phone.

“Chris,” Mickey told Ian.

Ian all of a sudden felt the need to scrub his skin clean as he watched Mickey answer the phone. He didn't want to listen to the conversation, didn't need the reminder. So he busied himself with grabbing his clothes and shoving them into his duffle bag. By the time he took his meds, Mickey was off the phone and sitting on the bed, watching him. He’s changed out of the ridiculous white robe and pulled on a pair of sweatpants.

“Gotta go?” Ian asked.

“Whenever,” Mickey replied. “Doesn’t have to be now.”

Ian sighed and nodded, abandoning his duffle bag to sit next to Mickey on the bed. “Wish we could just… run away,” he huffed a laugh.

Mickey laughed with him, but didn't reply.

“I can walk away from it anytime I want,” Ian told him. “You know, from Chris. That’s the deal. I’d walk away for you in a second. It sounds shitty, but the money… I feel like a monster when I say that. The money is part of the plan, and the plan is something better. I wanna do something with my life, wanna be someone.”

“I get it,” Mickey sighed heavily, reaching over to rest his hand on Ian’s thigh. “It’s where I am with my shit, man. The money is so fucking good, and I don’t wanna walk away from that, but I can’t breathe, and it's getting too risky. But I can’t… live, you know? So, I get it.”

Ian looked over at Mickey and put his hand on top of his, “Six months?”

“About,” Mickey said.

“So we either go back to how it was,” Ian sighed. “Or we cut this off until about six months —everything, no appointments, nothing. Or…”

“Or we try to make this work, while we both keep doing what we’re doing,” Mickey finished. “And after six months, when hopefully I’m done with my shit, we’ll figure something out for work, for you… and we can just _be_. I’ll help you, if you need me to, anything you need.”

“Assuming it hasn't blown up in our faces,” Ian adds.

“Right.”

“I don’t…” Ian said carefully, “I don’t want you to _have_ to take care of me. You know, with money and shit. I don’t want to be some charity case, Mick.”

“You’re not,” Mickey scoffed. “I _want_ to help you.”

“Mickey—”

“It’s not like that,” the brunette interrupted. “It’s not a fucking sugar-daddy thing or whatever. If you need it, it’s here, okay? I… ugh, fuck man… I like that shit.”

Ian looked over at Mickey, who was a little pink around the ears, “You like what?”

Mickey gave him a flat look before he rolled his eyes, “Taking care of your giant, redheaded ass. I know how it sounds, but it ain’t like _that_. Not about me getting off on it, or trying to run your life or whatever, or have you owing me shit.”

"What's it about?" Ian asked. He moved their hands to he could hold onto Mickey's, pushing his fingers through the empty spaces between that tattooed threat.

Mickey just shrugged, "Don't really think it's about anything. I just... like it."

“How am I supposed to take care of you, then?”

Mickey sighed, ran a hand over his hair, “Put it to you this way. I said what I said last night. And I let you kiss me.”

Ian frowned, “I don’t understand.”

“Come on, man,” the brunette groaned, purposefully not looking at Ian. “I never… you know. Never let another guy do that shit before. Never let another guy do a lot of shit that I let you do —or myself do— before.”

He couldn't stop the smile, it just took over his mouth, spreading wide, “You never kissed another guy before me? Ever?”

“No,” Mickey looked back at him, “Get that fucking look off your face, asshole.”

“ _Ever_ ever?”

“No,” Mickey said again, his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smile, “So, do you fucking get it now? That’s it. That’s how you take care of me.”

Ian felt all warm and floaty, like his chest was about to dissolve into bubbles and drift away. He leaned over, touching his forehead with Mickey’s for a second, breathing him in, just needing contact. They’d figure it out. It wasn’t going to be fucking easy. At all. But they’d figure it out. They kind of had to.

Mickey tilted his head and pressed a kiss to Ian’s lips, hand curling around the back of his neck, anchoring him, drawing out breaths while they moved their lips, so fucking sweetly, like a promise that they could do this.

 


	7. There Are Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he gets out of the shower, he brushes his teeth, and checks his neck, back, and other parts of his body for any marks. Finding none, he spits out his mouthful of toothpaste, dries off, wraps his towel around his waist and takes a deep breath, letting it all go. 
> 
> He’s back, he’s good, he’s Ian again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys deserve an ass beating.
> 
> (also, important end note.)

It's been four months. And a lot has happened in those four months. Some good. Some bad. Just... a lot.

Sometimes his front door sticks. Ian has to lean all his weight against it and jiggle the handle to get it to open. With a grunt and a low curse, he almost loses his balance when the dark green door gives, finally letting him into his apartment. He closes and locks it back up, kicks off his shoes and empties his pockets on the kitchen counter. Small tube of lube, sleeve of condoms, wet wipes… nine hundred dollars, cash.

He picks the money back up and heads straight for his bedroom, taking a manilla envelope and a marker out of a box on the top shelf of his closet. He stuffs his money in with the rest of it, scribbles _+900_ and the date under the other scratches of handwriting, and then puts the envelope back with the others. His clothes get stripped off and dumped into the laundry basket by the bathroom door, which he closes tightly behind him.

This is his routine. One that is executed without thought. It’s automatic and impersonal, and Ian has mastered this routine so his movements are so instinctive, that he doesn't have to second guess and remember what he does next.

The shower is hot, steam filling the small bathroom fairly quickly. Ian stands under the rushing water and closes his eyes, letting the hot water soak into his hair and pour down his back and chest. He leans his forehead against the cold tile wall, breathing for a moment, processing his night, letting it go.

Ian clears his throat, stands up straight and reaches for his body wash. He soaps up good, scrubbing at his skin, every part of him, until he’s shiny and new again. The water is hot, biting slightly into his sensitive skin, but he ignores it, washing his hair and face after his body. Trying to get clean again and move on from the last three hours.

When he gets out of the shower, he brushes his teeth, and checks his neck, back, and other parts of his body for any marks. Finding none, he spits out his mouthful of toothpaste, dries off, wraps his towel around his waist and takes a deep breath, letting it all go. 

He’s back, he’s good, he’s Ian again.

When he opens the bathroom door, there’s someone waiting for him on his bed, sitting there at the edge. Ian chews on his bottom lip and gives a little grin, like he’s been caught.

“You tryna scrub yourself raw?”

Ian rolls his eyes, knowing his skin is a little pink, “I’m okay.”

“Hate when you do that shit. I told you we could figure something else out if it made you feel like you had to do that —or I’d help you with the money,” Mickey sighs. “You’re putting yourself through hell every time you work.”

“I’m _really_ not. It’s my thing, okay, just let me do my thing. When this is over, I won’t do that anymore, promise. Besides, I can’t go back on my deal with Chris,” Ian said, moving to his dresser, not really wanting to go through this _again_. “Only got two months left. I’m down to two nights a week, and he gets to price-gouge the fuck out of me. Literally.”

There’s a silence that Ian knows is only being filled by Mickey’s scowl. Ian drops his towel and pulls on a pair of boxers. Okay so the _literally_ part wasn't needed, and Ian’s attempt to diffuse the tension in the air was unsuccessful. He knocked back his meds with the water bottle he keeps on his dresser and sighed, putting the pill bottles back where he got them.

“I thought you were busy tonight,” Ian said as he turned around to face the brunette again.

“What, you ain’t glad to see me?” Mickey pulled a half smile out from his scowl.

Ian grinned, straddling Mickey’s lap, pushing him gently to lay back on the bed. He crawled over him, gently pinning his tattooed hands above his head, watching the way blue eyes were peering up at him, “M’very glad to see you. Missed you.”

“Just saw you the day before yesterday,” Mickey reminded him.

“Yeah, and then I had a whole twenty-four hours to myself, thinking about how much I wanted one of these,” he murmured, brushing his lips across Mickey’s. Mickey pressed up against him, kissing him back softly.

“How was tonight?” Mickey pulled back and asked.

Ian frowned, releasing Mickey’s hands as he leaned back to sit up, “You wanna do this right now?”

“No, but _not_ talking about it didn't work out so well, did it?” Mickey raised his brows. “You wanna go back to that?”

No, it didn't work out so well, and Ian never _ever_ wanted to go back to that. The first three months of Ian going back to work, they tried to act like it wasn’t happening. And Between what Mickey was going through with his business and family, and Ian fucking other guys for money… it all kind of blew up one night. 

It was the first and last time Ian had Mickey's harsh voice directed at him. They didn't speak to each other for two weeks after that. 

Then, _and it was probably kind of really fucked up_ , but Mickey hired Ian for the night. They didn't even fuck, just talked —and yelled and said a lot of _fuck you_ ’s. But after all that, they realized that they couldn't do that... ignore everything. Or else it would just keep blowing up in their faces and make things even worse. 

So now they had these little discussions after Ian worked. Every time.

Sure, it wasn’t a perfected science. Mickey still got jealous and tense sometimes —sometimes needed to claim Ian, to say _mine_ when they fucked. And Ian got frustrated with being his boyfriends _secret_ , marking up the brunette’s ass and sucking bruises to his collarbones to stake his own claim. Yeah, it was probably not the best way to handle their situation (though, what was the _right way_ in their situation?). 

But it _really_ _was_ working, especially with trips to the house in the middle of the woods every other weekend. So it was the best for _them_.

“It was okay,” Ian finally said, fingers just resting on Mickey’s belt buckle, something to touch while he spoke. “He was nice, you know, manners and all that shit.”

"How old?"

Ian shrugged a shoulder, "Thirties?"

Mickey took a deep breath and nodded, “How many times?”

“Once for me, twice for him,” Ian answered. The corner of his mouth threatened to lift in a grin, “He made this —nevermind.”

Mickey drew his brows together, “No, what?”

Ian rolled his eyes, “He made this face and noise that was really funny. Thought I was gonna pop a lung trying not to laugh.”

The brunette pressed his lips together for a moment before he finally caved, with a heavy sigh that turned into a laugh, “Do it.”

“No,” Ian shook his head, grinning. “It was bad, Mick. It was _so_ bad.”

“Please,” Mickey grabbed at Ian’s hips, propelling himself forward to move and switch their positions, so he was settled on top of Ian, between his legs. He caged Ian in, hands planted on either side of his head, on the mattress, “Lemme see.”

Ian rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed, “It was like…” he pushed his chin down and hung his mouth open with his eyes scrunched up tight.

Mickey snickered a hissing laugh, “Okay, do the noise with the face.”

“He went… uhnnnuhnnnnuhhhh,” Ian fucked it up by laughing, but Mickey evidently got the point, because the brunette dropped his head down into the crook of Ian’s neck and was laughing loudly against his skin.

It might have been horrible, but laughing at stupid shit that Ian’s clients did really help sometimes. It was just a thing that he and Mickey did between themselves.

“Are you sure you weren’t looking in the mirror when that happened?” Mickey snorted, taking Ian’s hands and pinning them above his head, trapping him like he’d been trapped a little while ago.

Ian wrapped his legs around Mickey’s hips, bringing his boyfriend tightly down against him, “Listen, asshole.”

“I’m listening,” Mickey smiled, rocking his hips, pressing against Ian.

“You’re… an asshole,” Ian cringed when he said it, shaking his head.

Mickey laughed roughly, “Wow. Good one. I’m not really sure how I’m gonna recover from that. Fuck, man… that cut deep.”

“Shut the fuck up and put your mouth on my mouth,” Ian grumbled.

Mickey snorted, leaning down to ghost his lips over Ian’s, “You’re on a roll today.”

Ian’s insides curled up, that want for Mickey, that desire that never seemed to burn out, blazing to life violently. Mickey was teasing him, rocking his hips, moving like he was fucking him all slow, holding him down so he couldn't move. Ian tried to move his head forward to kiss the brunette, but he backed up and let out a breathy laugh every time he got too close.

“Come on,” Ian murmured. “Please.”

Mickey licked his lips, the move making his tongue swipe just barely over Ian’s lips. He groaned, mouth parting, trying to push forward again to kiss his boyfriend. Then Mickey rocked into him again, making both of them shudder and try to get even closer, though it wasn't possible.

But Mickey sees something while he’s on top of Ian, and he just stills completely, staring down at him. Immediately, Ian feels this panic flush over him, heart in his throat panic because he knows exactly what’s happened: he missed something.

“Turn your head to the left,” Mickey says.

Closing his eyes, Ian does, his legs unwrapping from around Mickey, he feels his whole body tense up, fucking hating this. This awful guilt and annoyance creeps up Ian’s throat, choking him while Mickey’s blue eyes are hard and unforgiving. This has only happened a handful of times, always ending with the same result. 

“That’s not supposed to happen,” Mickey’s voice is low and shaking.

“Yeah, I know. Guess I missed it,” Ian says tightly.

“Must’ve really gave it to him good, huh?”

Ian glares up at Mickey, “Fuck you. Get off me.”

“Ian… wait,” Mickey sighs, letting Ian get off the bed and following him into the bathroom. 

He ignores his boyfriend, looking in the mirror above the sink, trying his damnedest to see the mark, but evidently it’s in a really awkward place on the side of his neck, so it’s nearly impossible. When he finally does see it, he glares hard at the brunette. 

“It’s barely anything!”

“Doesn’t fucking matter! That’s not supposed to happen —I’m calling Chris,” Mickey snarled, digging in his pocket for his phone. “If this is the way he’s running shit, he shouldn't be running shit anymore.”

Ian grabbed his phone out of his hand, face white hot with anger, “Are you fucking serious right now? What’s the plan Mickey… _you_ gonna be my pimp instead? Gonna pick out what old rich dudes can fuck me, then cut me twenty percent like Chris? Or will I get twenty-five since I’ve got an in? Maybe if I blow you, you’ll give me an extra fifty.”

Mickey looked at him like he’d grown another head, “The fuck did you just say to me?”

“This isn’t something you just make a couple phone calls to your brothers and fix,” Ian said. “Mickey Milkovich can’t just barge into and take over whatever he wants because he doesn't like what he sees!”

“Easy,” Mickey’s brows raised, his voice harsh and warning.

Ian punched out a bitter laugh, “Fuck off, I’m not one of your _workers_ , you don’t get to use that voice on me. I didn’t get beat on tonight, Mick. No one hurt me or tried to take me away from you. The guy sucked on my neck — _barely_.”

The brunette was breathing hard, wetting his lips as his eyes ran all over Ian’s face and chest, “He wasn’t supposed to mark you up.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Ian sighed, leaning back against the bathroom counter. He set Mickey’s phone by the sink and folded his arms under his chest. “And Chris will talk to him, because _I’ll_ talk to Chris. Because I can take care of this myself. I don’t need you to swoop in and save me over nothing. It’ll be gone in a couple days anyway.”

For a few moments, they just looked at each other. Mickey looks tired, a little dark under his eyes, hair all messed up from running his hands through it all day. Under his clothes, he’s got bruises on his sides and scrapes on his back —none of which are from Ian. It’s not an easy job, separating from underground crime families. Doing favors, taking jobs to even it out, making different connections —shit Ian doesn't really understand, but doesn't really want to, all he wants is his boyfriend to be safe. 

They have arguments about his injuries, much like the ones about when Ian comes back home with hickeys or scratches down his back. 

The tension in the air slowly dissipates, leaving Ian to unfold his arms and tilt his head as he keeps looking at his boyfriend. He really just loved looking at him, no matter how much he wanted to beam him right between the eyes.

“Shouldn’t have said that shit about giving it to him good,” Mickey sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Ian nods, reaching out, taking the brunette by the hips to pull him closer, “I missed you. I don’t wanna do this shit all night, I wanna be with you.”

“I know,” Mickey sighed, leaning against Ian a little. “This Wolanski motherfucker is down my fucking throat —he ain’t happy with the new guy I set him up with and… he’s just causing problems. And then the fucking Italians are fucking dramatic about everything… I _literally_ can’t talk about that shit though. Still, shouldn’t’ve taken it out on you —ain’t you’re fault.”

“Well, I’m sorry I got all, you know, huffy,” Ian shrugged with a grin.

Mickey grinned back at him, “Had a little bit of a kitten, there.”

Ian rolled his eyes, “Warranted.”

“I know,” Mickey nodded. “It was.”

“So, what’d you do for him before? For Wolanski,” Ian asked.

Mickey gave him a long, quiet look before answering, “Courier services.”

“Ah,” Ian nodded. “Seems like a pretty straight-forward job.”

“On paper, it is,” Mickey replied. “But Wolanski’s old-school. Likes shit done a certain way.”

“Hmm,” Ian hummed, widening his eyes at his boyfriend, “Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickeygives him a lopsided smile and hooks his hand behind Ian’s neck, pulling him down, cutting off the conversation. 

They kiss hard, Ian grabbing onto his boyfriend and spinning them, hoisting Mickey up to sit on the edge of the bathroom counter. He presses in close, tasting the inside of Mickey’s mouth, biting at his lips, moaning low when hands dive into his hair and tug just enough for a little pain.

Ian slips his hands under Mickey’s shirt, tugging it off so he can look at the planes of his chest; perfect and just for him, just his. He skims his hands up his back, grabbing at his warm skin, drawing out hitched breaths and grunts —he makes sure to feel for the scrapes, to avoid them. There’s not a lot, and they’re not terribly bad, but still, they’re there. He steps back, breaking the kiss —Mickey makes a protesting sound, but grins when Ian yanks him off the counter to stand and spins him around.

His mind goes totally blank as he focuses on Mickey, on touching and tasting him. Mickey smells like his soap and his skin is soft under Ian’s mouth. He drags his tongue along the side of Mickey’s neck, watching both of them in the bathroom mirror, watching the way Mickey’s eyes flutter closed and his lips part. Ian’s not ashamed to admit it: they’re fucking hot. 

His fingers fumble quickly around Mickey’s pants, unbuckling, unbuttoning and unzipping, pushing his jeans down just far enough, slipping his hand into the front of his boxers. Mickey’s swelling up fast for him, chewing on his bottom lip, pushing back against him.

“Watch,” Ian breathes against Mickey’s ear. 

Mickey slowly opens his eyes, chest heaving, eyes locking on his own, in the mirror. Ian slips his hand further into the brunette’s boxers, taking him in his hand, squeezing and stroking at him. He watches the way Mickey’s mouth drops open, the way his eyebrows shoot upwards, the way his face just relaxes in this expression of what he can only describe as extreme relief. And that tells Ian all he needs to know: Mickey _needs_ it, needs everything. An escape.

“You stressed, baby?” Ian asks.

Mickey nods, “Yeah.” He licks his lips and moans, head falling forward.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” Ian pants against Mickey’s ear, releasing his erection. “Go bend over the bed for me.”

The slow, fucked grin that spreads across Mickey’s mouth is nothing but sin. He gives Ian one last look through the mirror and leaves the bathroom to go do exactly what he’s told. Ian takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself, feeling like a possessed man. Mickey knows what that look does to Ian, just digging in, spreading heat and want through his body.

Mickey, not a shame in the fucking world right now, is bent over the end of the bed, just waiting there for Ian. He can’t even suppress the appreciative groan, sinking to his knees behind Mickey like a fucking altar. It’s so hard to believe he’s his, that he’s the one Mickey breaks down all his walls for, who he trusts completely like that. Ian runs his hands over Mickey’s pale skin, over and between his cheeks, down to his perineum and back to where he started. The brunette shivers, hips pushing back.

“Jesus, Mick,” Ian breathes, grabbing at his boyfriends ass, two handfuls. It really was fucking perfect. He leans forward, building up a bit of spit and dragged his tongue over Mickey’s tight ring, listening to the sharp intake of breath.

Ian lapped at him, slow and steady, frustrating the brunette, making him so slick messy with his spit. He grabbed hard at Mickey’s ass, burying his face, sucking and kissing and pressing his tongue into him, just barely, just enough to get Mickey to let out a string of labored, breathy curses.

Mickey’s hips stuttered and rocked while Ian grabbed at him, working his tongue and lips the way he knew the brunette liked. His fingers dug into soft, pale flesh as he spread him wide, dipping down to drag his tongue over Mickey’s perineum and mouth his way back up.

He was so keyed up from this, so hard, knowing his fingertips would leave bruises because his boyfriend bruised wonderfully easy. Mickey sounded like he was in the middle of shooting a fucking porno, with all those whines and drawn out moans he was making.

“Spread your legs more,” Ian murmured as he straightened up again, but kept his fingers rubbing and prodding at Mickey’s hole.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey whined under him, hips rutting downward against the mattress. “S’good… fucking good.”

“Yeah, you like that?” Ian grinned, reaching behind him to his top dresser drawer. Thank fucking god his room was small enough where he didn’t even have to stop touching and teasing Mickey’s ring of muscle. He got his tube of lube and a condom out of his top drawer, dripped a couple drops of lube where his fingers met Mickey’s hole, then put the stuff to the side for later. He pressed his free hand to the small of Mickey’s back, keeping him still while he pushed his middle finger inside of him, going slow.

“Fuck,” Mickey moaned, dragging the word out.

He was so fucking tight around Ian’s finger. Ian bit his bottom lip and groaned at the feeling, pushing in and out of his boyfriend, opening him up all slow and steadily. Mickey had pretty reddish-pink marks all over his ass from Ian’s hands and fingers pressing into him hard. Ian’s mouth watered, at the sight.

He worked in another finger, seeking out Mickey’s prostate. He knew Mickey’s body well, pressing against the magic little spot to make his boyfriend turn to a fucking mess. The brunette groaned low in his throat and his legs trembled; it was fucking beautiful, and even though Ian couldn't see his face, he knew his boyfriend had to be clawing at the blankets and his mouth was hanging open.

“Been a while, huh baby?” Ian drawled, rubbing his free hand against Mickey’s ass cheek, going in circles. Bruises from the last time Ian did this had long faded, just leaving that moon-pale, glowy skin. Like a brand new canvas.

Mickey pushed back against Ian’s fingers, fucking himself on them, “Please.”

Ian wet his lips, pressed heavily onto Mickey’s prostate and cocked his hand back, letting it fly back down to smack loudly against his boyfriends ass, the sting in Ian’s hand sent a little thrill down his spine. Mickey went from moaning loudly in pleasure, so gasping and jerking forward, making his startled, throaty noise. Ian rubbed his hand over his large, splayed handprint and grinned when Mickey shivered.

“That’s it,” Ian murmured, dipping down to place soft kisses to the very tops of Mickey’s thighs while he pumped his fingers in and out slowly, softening the edges of that sweet pain Mickey needed. “Doing so good. You need some more?”

“Shit — _please_ ,” Mickey hissed. So Ian sat back up to hit him again, and again, rubbing at the sensitive flesh, leaning forward to kiss and lick, feeling that heat against his lips and tongue, grinning when Mickey punched out drawn out groans.

Maybe from an outsider, to someone who didn't understand, the hits would look violent, with how hard Ian brought his hand down, how Mickey would let out this pained whine when it happened. But with Ian needing to take his control back after working —Mickey needing to ‘check out’ after the hell he’d been through with work in the last week, it wasn't at all. 

And besides, Mickey fucking _liked_ it. A lot. He liked getting his ass beat. He liked that sting when he sat down the day after —just as much as Ian liked giving him that, having Mickey completely fall apart under his hand. So what if it looked violent… it wasn’t. It was, to them, just the opposite of that.

Ian worked in a third finger, stretching his boyfriend, rubbing at his insides, getting him ready for him. He kept grabbing rough handfuls and smacking his ass hard, moving from cheek to cheek, watching with greedy, wild eyes as milky flesh turned to red. He marveled at it, making little comments about how good his ass looked lit up like that, skin hot like a fucking furnace while he smoothed a soothing hand over each cheek. 

“Should fucking see this ass,” Ian breathed. “Look so good, Mick.”

Mickey was _gone_ , jerking and moaning under him, asking for more, so Ian gave him exactly that, hand stinging sweetly; honestly, Mickey’d be lucky if he could walk properly tomorrow. His voice was slurring and hoarse, hips pushing back so he kept fucking himself on Ian’s fingers. 

But not once did those tattooed hands come back to try to stop Ian, not once did he try to move up the bed, away from the hits. Mickey was a fucking champ and craved this and Ian couldn't have been more fucking proud or more turned on by it.

“Fuck,” Mickey punched out, desperate and breathy. “Please… Ian, gonna fucking come. I can’t —fuck, _please_.”

Ian grinned, easing his fingers from Mickey’s ass as he stood. He quickly shed his boxers (with a giant fucking wet spot right on the front), grabbed the condom, tore it open, put it on, and stood behind Mickey.

“Up,” Ian said, pushing at the middle of Mickey’s back, so the brunette would arch, putting that red ass up for him. Yeah, he’d definitely have a hard time walking and sitting down tomorrow —and some _nice_ fucking bruises. "Just like that.”

Ian fucked his boyfriend hard, pushed into him until he bottomed out, drawing moans and sharp hisses from Mickey. They’d have time for sweet and slow later, where Ian would kiss at Mickey’s scattered bruises on his sides and put gentle hands on his scraped back. Right now, Ian was just all about this, about getting Mickey to not think, to get him to just let go of all the bullshit. 

“Take it so fucking good, Mick,” Ian panted, hitting Mickey’s ass again as he fucked him. “Red ass getting fucked like this, damn baby.” 

Mickey keened, babbling _yes_ and _fuck_ and _again_ over and over, completely surrendering to everything Ian was giving him —taking everything Ian was giving him. Ian pistoned into him, skin slapping against skin, bodies flushed and sweaty; he watched Mickey reach his hands out and grab onto the blankets, his knuckles turning white, face setting in what almost looked like pain for a second. 

“You okay?” Ian asked, slowing his pace down, smoothing a hand over the side of Mickey’s head. His own legs were trembling under him, a pulsing wave of need just taking over; Mickey was tight and hot and just… everything. “Not hurting you?”

“M’okay, don't stop... please don't fucking stop,” Mickey shuttered, breathing heavy, one of his hands releasing the blanket so he could touch Ian’s hand, fingers brushing the backs of his knuckles. It was so gentle and light, contrasting everything that Ian had already put him through, that little extra silent reminder that he really was okay. Ian pushed in deep and held there for a moment, watching the way Mickey’s face twisted in this fucking beautiful, overwhelmed strain.

They didn’t last much longer after that. Ian setting his pace again, doing all the work, getting Mickey to let go —it was enough to send both of them completely over the edge. He reached under Mickey, wrapping his hand around his leaking erection, pounding into him as he jerked him hard. 

They fell over that edge together, both with strangled, hoarse moans, both trembling and trying to catch their breaths. Both falling completely limp over the edge of Ian’s bed. Spent. Ian pressed his forehead between Mickey's shoulders, trying to ground himself again.

“Jesus,” Mickey panted, hand reaching back to brush his fingers through Ian’s hair. “Fuck, I needed that.”

They moved so slowly and shakily that Ian felt like an old man —which made him laugh a little at the thought. Ian made it to the bathroom, cleaned himself up, tossed a washcloth to Mickey to clean up as well. Ian watched Mickey carefully pull on his boxer-briefs, having to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. 

Then they ended up back on the bed, right in the middle, Ian laying completely on top of Mickey, sleepy and needing contact. Mickey wrapped himself around Ian, stroking his back in long, slow movements.

“You good?” Ian closed his eyes, pressing his face into Mickey’s neck, inhaling his scent.

“Yeah. C’mere,” Mickey said.

Ian slowly raised and moved his head, pressing his lips to Mickey’s, moving his lips lazily through his exhaustion. Mickey kept moving his hands up and down Ian’s back, gently gripping at him while he licked at his lips and softly pushed his tongue further to meet Ian’s. They hummed and moaned softly into each other, into the lazy, somewhat sloppy kiss.

“Can you stay tonight?” Ian breathed as he slowly broke the kiss off. For a little incentive, he brushed his lips across Mickey’s once, twice more.

But then Mickey sigh was all drawn out and Ian felt like a deflated balloon. He didn't even want to hear it when Mickey answered him, “I got some early morning shit I gotta take care of.”

He felt his eyes sting in the corners, felt his whole mood shift, flipping on it’s axis. He hated that his eyes were stinging like that, hated that he felt like a pouting little kid, but it had been almost a week since they’d slept together and… it’s just… it sucked.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey said softly, moving them, pushing Ian onto his back so he could straddle him. “Ay, look at me.”

Ian took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on Mickey, letting his hands be pressed gently into the mattress.

“I got a job I gotta take care of, okay?” Mickey raised his brows, forehead creasing like an emphasis on his words. “Why don’t we go to the apartment tomorrow night? We’ll get that take-out shit you like, watch a fucking Van Damme movie, sleep in.”

“You bribing me with Chinese food and Van Damme right now?” Ian couldn't help but laugh. The nerve of this fucking guy; he was lucky he was so cute.

Mickey pulled the corner of his mouth up in a lopsided grin, “Is it working?”

Ian slipped his hands out from under Mickey’s and reached for his face, tracing the lines of his cheek, down to his jaw, to his lips. Mickey hummed and leaned into the touch, his eyes closing as Ian rubbed at his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. Something warm and fluttery stirred deep in his gut, tightening up his body. Fuck, his boyfriend was some kind of gorgeous, Ian could barely stand it.

“Fine,” Ian sighed.

“You mad?”

Ian moved to Mickey’s hair, brushing his fingers through it, “Just miss you.”

“I’m right here,” Mickey murmured. At Ian’s flat look, he sighed, “I know. It’s not gonna be like this forever, okay?”

He got a little swell in his chest from that last word. Ian didn’t know if Mickey was aware of it, but when he used words like _forever_ or even _next year_ , it got little hard to breathe, a little floaty around the edges for Ian. He kind of loved that.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, Ian woke up in Mickey’s apartment. The bed was ridiculously comfortable and big and had this fluffy comforter that you could get lost in. He stretched under the comforter, yawning, only mildly concerned with the time. 

Last night had been probably one of the best night that Ian had in a long time. Mickey had ordered a ridiculous amount of Chinese food. They set up in the living room, containers of food filling up most of the coffee table while they watched Bloodsport _and_ Double Impact, with minimal cracks from Mickey about how Seagal is _so much better_. However, halfway through Double Impact, Mickey crawled into Ian’s lap and they didn't watch the rest of the movie. 

Ian reached out, under the covers, frowning when all he found was sheets. He tugged the blanket back, humming when a little slip of paper fluttered from Mickey’s pillow with the brunette’s scrawl in blue ink.

_Ran out to get donuts for your princess ass._

Ian breathed a laugh and rolled his eyes. He had half a mind to go back to sleep, but at the distant sound of paper bags and cabinets opening up in the kitchen, he slid out of bed, pulling his sweatpants on.

There was always this little part of him that felt guilty when he stayed over at Mickey’s apartment. Two months ago, his boyfriend had officially separated from his wife and moved all of his stuff there. And Ian knew that the marriage was something that neither one of them ever wanted or asked for, and that the separation was a long, _long_ time coming. But it was the whole _breaking up a family_ thing that he couldn't help but feel a little responsible for. 

Maybe he was being a martyr about the whole thing. Mickey didn’t feel guilty. He said that his wife didn't have a problem with it. Perks of being the mistress, Ian guessed. The guilt.

He must have made more noise than he thought while walking to the kitchen because right before he walked into the space, a voice called out to him.

“Hey Mick, I know you said you bought groceries, but I was at the market this morning and I know how you like those Fuji apples…” 

The voice trailed off as the woman turned around and saw Ian standing there in the doorway of the kitchen, sweatpants, rumpled hair, and nothing else. It was like time stopped completely and Ian couldn't fucking breathe.

She had these blue eyes that were almost exactly like Mickey’s. And her hair, dark like Mickey’s, was pulled up on top of her head in a last-minute bun type thing that Ian’s little sister Debbie wears sometimes. 

Ian had seen a picture of Mandy on Mickey’s phone before. They were twins, somewhat close. The picture in Mickey’s phone had been of them at a party, drinking and laughing, Mandy’s arm slung around Mickey’s shoulders, pressing the side of her face against his. Ian loved that picture.

Mickey said that he was pretty sure Mandy _knew_ about him. Their brothers probably knew as well, but he wasn't as sure about that. He thought she probably knew for a long time, even before Mickey got caught when he was sixteen. Mickey said that they just always had a weird understanding of each other. Ian thought it was one of those twin things.

“Uhm,” Mandy said, completely frozen in place with a bag of apples in her hands.

Ian didn’t know what to do, what to say. This couldn't have been good though. This had to be very _very_ fucking bad. It was too late to just turn around and go back into the bedroom, he couldn't walk right out of the door. He was stuck. His whole body was frozen and on fire and he was completely stuck. Mickey was going to freak the fuck out.

She slowly put the bag of apples on the kitchen counter, keeping her eyes on Ian as her hand dipped into the large black purse sitting next to the paper bags. Ian swallowed hard, praying to whatever higher power there was that she didn't pull a fucking gun on him.

“Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure how, but he finally found his voice, “Friend of Mickey’s… he’s letting me crash here for a couple days.”

One of her eyebrows arched upwards, “A friend of Mickey’s?”

Ian nodded, eyes not leaving Mandy's hand in her purse. He folded his arms over his chest to cover himself a little, just feeling really fucking exposed and vulnerable right now, “Yeah.”

Her blue eyes gave him a once over, all slow like Mickey did, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. At least, not the kind of heat that Mickey had, “Mickey doesn't have friends. Try again.”

Ian took a deep breath and shook his head, “From South Side. We went to school together.”

“Really?” Mandy huffed a dry laugh. “That was a long time ago and I’ve never seen or heard shit about you. And he’s letting you just _stay_ here for a couple days… because he’s _such_ a philanthropist.”

Fuck. Ian didn’t say anything back, didn't know where to start. Mandy saw right through his bullshit. She gave him another once over, her eyes narrowing, head tilting a little to the side before it looked like a little light flickered to life behind her eyes. She took her hand - _her empty hand, thank god_ \- out of her purse, and had this look on her face like she'd just won a fucking prize. Ian’s stomach dropped.

“Are you fucking my brother?” Mandy asked; Ian’s stomach dropped even further. “Are you the one he disappears with every other weekend?”

There wasn’t even time to _think_ about answering because the sound of the front door of the apartment opening and closing cut through the silence like a fucking cannon. Ian whipped around, facing the hallway that led to the door, his mouth trying to work to get _anything_ out as he watched Mickey throw his keys on the entry table and grin at him, a white bakery box in one hand.

“I got those Boston cream ones you like,” he said, closing the space between him and Ian, his free arm wrapping around Ian’s waist, pulling him close.

Ian tensed up, “Mick, wait—”  

“Had to fight an old lady for the last maple glaze,” Mickey cut him off. 

Ian felt Mickey’s hand slide down and grab his ass and it was like the whole fucking world and everything just in it just took a shit on his head because before he could say something, he was cut off _again_ by his boyfriends full mouth pressing against his own. 

Yeah. Yeah, Mickey was going to freak the fuck out when he finally saw his sister standing in the kitchen, behind Ian.

Gathering himself, Ian gently pushed Mickey away, “Mickey, stop.”

Mickey frowned, “What’s wrong?”

Ian sighed and stepped out of the way, so Mickey could see his sister; a wide, shit-eating grin spread across her face, hip leaning against the counter, looking at Mickey like she just caught him with both hands and his face inside of the fucking cookie jar.

“Hey Mick,” she said, smile not faltering for even a second. 

Ian looked back at Mickey, being met with exactly what he thought he’d be met with. Mickey blinked, face fallen and completely ashen. He swallowed hard, looked at Ian, then his sister, then back to Ian again, finally ending on his sister.

“What are you doing here?” Mickey finally croaked, frozen in place.

Mandy snorted a laugh, shaking her head, “Oh, you know, just thought I’d drop by and see how and your boyfriend are doing —brought some apples. Gotta keep that energy up, you know.” Her tone was a little sarcastic. Like she was annoyed.

Mickey was looking down at the bakery box and Ian wanted to tell him not to look down like that, not to be ashamed or feel bad. He wanted to reach out and touch him, make him feel better. But he kept quiet, off to the side, letting the siblings have their time. It probably would have been best if he led the room, but he feet weren’t working.

“Mick,” Mandy sighed. “Chill out. You know I don’t give a shit.”

Still, he didn't say anything.

“Wished you woulda told me though,” she added. “By the way, you need to come up with a better story than he’s an old friend from South Side. That’s fucking _terrible_.”

Ian ducked his head to hide a grin when Mandy looked over at him and winked.

Mandy squeezed Mickey’s shoulder and moved past him, into the hallway, “I’m gonna leave you two to your morning. You coming into work later, Mick?”

Mickey just barely nodded, still staring down at the box.

“It was nice meeting you…” Mandy trailed off, waiting for Ian to fill in the blank.

“Uh, Ian,” he said, face heating up.

“Ian,” Mandy grinned. “I’m Mandy. Don’t fuck him over, okay?”

And then she left. And Ian was left there in the kitchen with Mickey, who hadn't moved a fucking inch. It was so quiet and the air was so heavy. Ian carefully took the box from Mickey’s hands, setting it on the counter.

“Mick,” Ian sighed, placing his hands on his boyfriends shoulders, “It’s okay.”

But Mickey just shook his head, lips tucking in between his teeth as he took a step back from Ian. It wasn’t a lot of space, but at that moment it felt like a mile. Ian tried to ignore the sting, tried to understand what was going through Mickey’s head. But all he could focus on was the space between them.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Mickey said carefully. 

Ian felt like he was seconds away from drowning, like water was at his chest, quickly rising with each second. He took a step towards Mickey, reaching out for him, only to watch his boyfriend take another step back.

“Please don’t do this,” Ian said. 

Mickey held up a quieting hand and shook his head, “Ian, I need you to give me some fucking space right now, okay? Just… I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

And there it was. “You want me to leave?”

Mickey’s silence was enough of an answer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE READ!** (sorry for the long note down here lol)  
>  Two things:
> 
> 1\. I already said this on tumblr, but I wanted to say it here too, obviously: This story is not over yet. I realized that I was rushing to complete this, when I have so much to explore and things I want to happen. That being said, I will try my damndest to keep updating every few days or whatever, like I have been. I will honestly really really try. I feel like I'll be able to. I don't know how long this will be, but the point is that it's not over yet :)
> 
> 2\. I also realized, while writing this chapter, that I never specified how old everyone is supposed to be. It's not even important right now, but whatever. So… in this au: Yev was born when Mickey was about 16/17. It’s been twelve years since then. So Mickey’s about 28/29, Ian’s still 17 —JUST KIDDING HE’S LIKE 26/27, please get the joke, I wasn’t trying to be gross lol. I guess I could have clarified that in the story somehow, but idk I just wanted to get that out of the way now. 
> 
> ( **add-on edit** : I realize that 26, for Ian, might be a little on the older side to want to just now get into a "good" college, but I mean... _is it?_ I mean, that happens, right? I'm mostly talking to myself right now lol sorry, I just thought of this about 2 mins ago and was like.. ehh...)


	8. All Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he didn’t make a habit to socialize with Chris’s other guys too much —half of them were true party boys, drinking drugs, fucking anything that wasn't nailed down type of guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit short (compared to the other chapters).

He wasn’t _depressed_ , but he was down. Blue. Sad. Whatever. Ian laid out like a starfish on his bed, staring up at his ceiling. He’d been there for a little while, just staring at the fan above him and breathing. He understood that Mickey was probably in panic mode right now, having being caught by his sister.

They were supposed to talk to each other though. They were supposed to be there for each other. That’s how relationships _worked_ , right? Ian wasn’t exactly the fucking relationship guru —any serious relationships he’d ever had were pretty toxic in one way or another. But even he knew that what happened that morning was shitty.

Honestly, he was kind of pissed. Didn't know if he should be, didn’t know if it was warranted, but he was. Mickey basically kicking him out of his apartment because his sister "caught" him? It made him feel really gross and unwanted —and cheap. Made him feel like a whore. So yeah, he was pissed. Mandy stood there and said it was okay, she said she didn't fucking care, so why did Mickey have to (predictably) fucking shut down like that and shut Ian out… _literally_ shut him out.

Ian sighed, grabbing his phone by his side to look at the time. He should probably go to the gym. Part of him didn’t really want to go, all he really wanted to do was lay there. But laying in bed for the rest of the day would be the exact opposite of good for him, especially when he was feeling like shit. 

Besides, he had to go to South Side later —he’d promised.

With a loud, drawn out groan, Ian got up from his bed and changed into his workout clothes. Maybe running on a treadmill for a while would actually make him feel better —it normally helped anyway.

He went to a gym closer to downtown. It was really nice; good equipment, juice bar and all that shit. The guys he worked with went there too, and it was pretty inevitable that Ian would run into at least one of them while he was there (they guys were _always_ at the gym). But other than that, he didn’t make a habit to socialize with Chris’s other guys too much —half of them were _true_ party boys, drinking drugs, fucking anything that wasn't nailed down type of guys. 

Ian didn't do that shit anymore, so why bother with the temptation to slip back to that. It was a fun life, if you didn't think about all the reckless shit when you sobered up.

Like, for example, there was Cooper —who Ian saw at the juice bar when he walked into the building— Cooper could party for _days_ , could drink _anyone_ under the table. He also rocked the hell out of a man-bun and had tattoos covering him. 

Cooper was hot, _he was a bro_ , but he was hot —nice body, tanned skin, and dark eyes. But besides being completely immersed in the party life, he was also kind of a _talker_ and had this really volatile on-again/off-again relationship with his boyfriend… _who didn't know he was a fucking prostitute_. Cooper was a mess.

Ian got roped into one of the guy’s ramblings one night at a bar. He went on and on about his fucked up relationship, and Ian found himself just stuck there listening to what was equivalent to an entire plot line to a goddamn telenovela. Ian suspected that even in his hardcore partying days, he would be a little overwhelmed.

Not wanting to talk to anyone, much less get stuck having his ear rattled off by Cooper, Ian ducked out of the guys sight and made a beeline for the treadmills. He needed to run.

 

* * *

 

Ian gripped the wrapped box in his hands, staring at the house in front of him. His childhood home. It took quite a few visits over the past four months, but eventually he and his older siblings came to an understanding: Ian was on medication that was working, he was making his _own_ choices, and most importantly… _he was an adult_. He knows they worry about him, about his safety —especially Fiona. But he was okay. And so they were _trying_.

They just didn't talk about it anymore, because there was no need to. When it came down to it, they were Gallagher kids and that meant even when your siblings do something you don’t understand or agree with, you’re just gonna have to tough it out. Because in the Gallagher family, they were all each other had.

The door swung open and Liam beamed at him, taller than ever. It was his thirteenth birthday and Ian could barely wrap his fucking head around it. He swore it was just last week that the kid was toddling up and down the stairs, soggy diaper on his butt.

Even though running at the gym made him feel a little better, he still had to push Mickey and _that_ whole mess out of his head, otherwise he’d be fucking miserable and down all night. And that wasn’t fair to his baby brother.

“You coming in anytime soon?” Liam laughed. “Pizza’s getting cold.”

Ian grinned, rolling his eyes, heading up the front steps, “Yeah, jackass.” He hooked his arm around Liam’s neck and drew him close to his side, “What’ve you been up to?”

“Oh, you know,” Liam began, reluctantly accepting Ian’s kiss to the top of his head (teenagers amirite?). “Started up a biker gang, cooking meth…”

Ian snorted and handed Liam the box in his hand as they walked inside, “Very nice. Are those connected or mutually exclusive?”

“Mutually exclusive,” Liam decided.

“What’s mutually exclusive?” 

Ian looked up, grinning at his older brother. Lip walked up to him and Liam, reaching out to Ian for a quick hug, “His biker gang and drug ring,” Ian answered.

Lip laughed, reaching up to run a hand over the top of Liam’s head. Ian stepped back with Lip so they could look at their littlest brother. Liam, knowing his fate, just stood there and took it, holding the blue wrapped box in front of him, brown eyes narrowing at them. Poor guy, being the baby.

“Look at our baby brother,” Lip grinned, knocking his elbow against Ian’s side. “Still doesn't have a girlfriend though.”

Ian sighed, winking at Liam, “Maybe it’ll happen this year.”

“Leave him alone, you assholes!” Fiona called from the kitchen. “It’s his birthday!”

Dinner with his family was probably one of Ian’s favorite things, and something he missed dearly. They were loud, taking digs at each other, laughing and drinking. And Liam, even though he wasn’t anywhere near old enough, was allowed one beer. But after he took one sip, he decided that he didn't like it very much, so Carl finished it for him. Liam was a good, sweet kid, better than the rest of them as far as Ian was concerned.

Add a couple neighborhood teens into the mix (Liam’s friends), Kev and Vee, and their daughters… the Gallagher house might as well have been fucking shaking. Ian let himself have half a beer, getting a decent buzz on, and danced around with Debbie and Fiona, spinning them around and hugging them tightly. He loved his family. He really, _really_ loved them a lot. And it didn’t take long for his mood to come back up, for him to put all of his focus on his family and not on that morning with Mickey.

It had been a long time that they hadn’t spent together, and while that time was good for Ian to find his bearings, he had missed his family more than he could have ever imagined. It finally felt like he had nearly everything he ever wanted. Nearly.

During a short break in the partying, when Ian was sitting at the kitchen table with his older sister, his phone rang. He’d been looking through his calendar, at his next appointment for tomorrow night when it happened. _Mick_ flashed across the screen, but he didn’t answer. Probably should have, but he just couldn’t talk about shit right then and didn’t want to either.

“Who’s Mick?” Fiona asked, blatantly peering over at his phone.

“Friend,” He lied. He couldn't really talk about his relationship with anyone, even his family. And that sucked. But his boyfriend was in a tough spot and if somehow it got out _at this particular time_ that Mickey Milkovich was _with_ another guy, then things could get real fucking complicated.

Fiona arched a suspicious brow at him, “Didn’t wanna talk to him?”

Ian shook his head, “Nah, I’m spending time with you guys.”

His phone made a blip of a noise, telling him that Mickey’d left a voicemail. Ian stared down at it, knowing Fiona was giving him _that look_ , that look like she could see right through everything and was just waiting for him to spill the beans. The words missed call & voicemail were like this flashing taunt; he wanted to listen, but he was scared.

It’d probably be really rude to get up and go outside to listen to the voicemail, right? Maybe. Ian inhaled and exhaled hard, shoving his phone into his back pocket.

Later, after the dancing started up again before dying back down, and the music was turned low —after Kev and Vee took their girls home, because there was school in the morning and Kev was nothing but adamant about his baby girls' education. After all that, Ian found himself in the rotting, old van in the backyard, sitting in the drivers seat, Lip in the passenger seat —Carl in the back, between them.

Carl passes the joint to Ian, “You still hookin’?” 

Ian snorts a laugh with Lip —though Lip’s is more just a snort than a laugh. Carl’s consistency in just blurting out questions that everyone wants to know has always been refreshing, even with the uncomfortable topics. Even though he’s a full gown fucking adult, he never lost that part of him.

“Uh… yeah,” Ian answers, passing the joint to Lip after he’s pulled on it and blown out the smoke. “Not as much, but yeah.”

“Hm,” Carl nods. “Getting a little old for that shit, aren’t you?”

“Excuse you,” Ian frowns as Lip is choking on smoke next to him, cracking up. “I’m in my fucking prime. I look good, fuck you _very_ much.”

“Bro, you’re almost thirty,” Carl cracks, reaching to pluck the joint from Lip’s fingers.

Ian’s mouth drops open as he reaches into the back to smack Carl in the forehead, “I am not, fucker.” He looks at Lip and shakes his head, “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Lip just shrugs, “ _Please_ don’t look at me like I’m gonna jump on over to your side.”

“Yeah yeah,” Ian rolled his eyes, waving smoke away from his face. The van was fucking hot-boxed already.

“Do ever get, like, old dudes who want you to call them Daddy?”

“Carl!”

 

* * *

 

Liam and his friends had taken their celebrations elsewhere —probably one of the other kids houses to play video games and shit. Ian’s baby brother didn't get into trouble like the rest of the Gallagher boys, so no one ever worried about him. 

After Ian helped clean up the mess, he said goodbye to his siblings. Lip thumped him on the back hard; Debbie and Carl hugged him before Debbie gave Carl a ride back to where he was living now. Fiona smiled so big at him, held his face, told him to come by more often, looking at him like she did when he was a little kid, when she called him sweet-face.

He finally listens to Mickey’s voicemail when he gets in his car. It’s nothing earth-shattering, kind of anti-climactic actually: _It’s me, call me back, okay? Need to talk to you._

Ian sighs and tosses his phone onto the passenger seat. He should call Mickey back, but it’s late and he’s not wanting to get in a fight over the phone, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to say to Mickey that Mickey doesn’t already know. He’s fucking pissed and hurt, and to reiterate that is useless. 

And honestly, he just doesn’t want to talk to Mickey; it’s Ian’s thing and it’s not fair, he knows this… ignoring. Giving the chin, whatever the fuck you want to call it. It might be childish, but Ian doesn't care. Not right now. He’s allowed this right now, as far as he’s concerned.

 

* * *

 

When Ian got home, Mickey was sitting on his kitchen counter, drinking a beer. Ian stood just outside of the kitchen, this heat spreading over his body as he stared at his boyfriend. 

“I called you hours ago,” Mickey said, his voice kind of soft.

Ian clenched his jaw, tossed his car keys on the counter and kept walking, going to his room. The fucking _balls_ on Mickey Milkovich was staggering sometimes. Ian briefly wanted to take the key that he gave his boyfriend and chuck it out the window. 

“Ian,” Mickey called behind him. Ian heard him hop off the counter and follow him. “Ian, I freaked out, okay, I’m sorry.”

Ian sighed, tugging his shirt off. It smelled like weed and was starting to give him a headache —though, he really wasn’t sure what was giving him a headache now, the shirt or his boyfriend. He rooted around his dresser drawers, not really doing anything besides keeping from talking. He still didn't know what to say, and still didn't really feel like saying anything anyways.

“I was an asshole,” Mickey continued. “Will you fucking look at me?”

Ian glanced behind him, giving Mickey a hard look before going back to his drawers.

“Ay,” Mickey grunted, grabbing Ian’s shoulder and spinning him around. “Don’t start this stupid shit.”

Ian just raised his brows, feeling his mood revving up to head on over to fuck-you-ville. _Really?_ Mickey was the one who kicked him out of the apartment this morning and now he was getting pissed because Ian wasn’t speaking to him? Because that made fucking sense.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey took a step towards him. 

Ian looked all over his face, the creased brows, the messy hair from touching it too much, the slight swell of his lips from biting them.

“The last time I got caught with another guy, something really fucking bad happened,” Mickey sighed, “And it’s different, it’s Mandy, I know that. But I freaked the fuck out and I’m sorry, okay?”

Ian sighed, running a hand over his hair, still lost on words. Somewhere inside him there was this part that understood what Mickey was saying, that got it. And he _really_ did get it. 

Mickey had told him about the fucking brutal beating he got and what happened after, with his now wife. There was that part of him that completely understood how getting caught again would make Mickey just shut down. 

Then there was that other part, the boyfriend part, the _just you_ and the _mine_ part that was still pissed off because Mickey pushed him away, fucking kicked him out when he didn't do anything wrong.

“I don’t wanna lose this. I know I keep fucking up. Probably gonna keep fucking up, but I can’t… fuck, Ian… I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Ian shook his head, finally finding his voice again, “You’re not losing me, Mick. I’m… I’m pissed, okay. I didn’t do anything and you pushed me away.”

“I know,” Mickey sighed. He cleared his throat and rubbed at the bottom of his nose, and from that alone, Ian felt his heart get a little heavier. He wasn’t used to seeing his boyfriend like that. He looked so lost.

So Ian closed the space between him and Mickey, wrapping his arms around his boyfriends shoulders, feeling Mickey’s arms slowly wrap around him too, holding him tightly. He truly understood that Mickey had to live his life a certain way right now. That _way_ wasn’t fair to either one of them, but Ian knew that going into this. He knew it wasn’t going to be this perfect happily ever after. 

“Just don’t push me away,” Ian murmured to Mickey, brushing his lips against the side of his head. “That’s it, okay? Just don’t do that.”

Mickey nodded, head turning and tilting until their lips brushed against each other. Ian sighed against his boyfriends mouth, this warmth flooding him when they just barely kissed.

“It okay if I stay here tonight?” Mickey breathed.

Ian smiled, then pressed his lips more fully against Mickey’s, fingers brushing into dark hair, “Of course.”

Mickey exhaled into him, and Ian could just feel his whole body relax, like the brunette had been wound up tight like a coil all day then finally released. 

They kissed gently, all lips, barely any tongue and it was sort of really nice. Ian felt everything else just melt away, felt Mickey walking him backwards towards his bed, and it just… it was perfect. And soft. And loving. 

And Ian felt this swell in his chest of all these emotions, all that centered around his boyfriend, and how much he cared about him. Today had been a shit day, but right now in this moment, it was so good.

Then Mickey was above him, while Ian laid out on his bed, staring down at him, lips parted, just taking him all in like he was the only fucking thing that mattered. It hit Ian in the chest, so completely overwhelmed when Mickey looked at him like that.

“Are we good?” Mickey asked him, voice quiet.

Ian nodded, reaching for his boyfriend, pulling him down against him. “We’re good,” he breathed against his mouth, sealing their lips together, licking at nipping at Mickey’s full bottom lip.

Then Mickey pulled back and got this tentative little grin on his face that only spelled trouble for Ian, so Ian could do nothing but hold his breath to keep from laughing.

“Still think I should make it up to you,” Mickey said, dipping down to kiss at Ian’s chest. 

Ian hummed, eyes slipping closed, moving his hands to rest under his head, getting completely swept away in the feeling of his boyfriend mouthing over his skin. Lips and tongue and hot breath working further down his chest, giving him goosebumps.

“No complaints from me,” Ian breathed, suppressing a moan when Mickey palmed his swelling erection through his jeans.

Mickey worked slow, moving down Ian’s body, kissing and dragging his tongue. By the time he was undoing his jeans, Ian was a fucking mess, his arms now at his sides, reaching for his boyfriend, body feeling like it was going to explode.

And then after Mickey tugged Ian’s jeans and boxers off, he dragged his teeth against the cut of his hip, and Ian was _gone_. His back arched, fingers immediately sinking into Mickey’s hair, just gone. He needed his boyfriends mouth, he was so close, working his way over, licking and kissing and peeking up with this little _look_ in those blue eyes — _fuck_.

Ian tried to prop himself up on his elbows so he could watch, when Mickey wrapped a hand around the base of his erection. But with his other hand, the brunette reached and pushed his sternum, making him lie back down. So Ian did, relaxing his muscles as best he could, getting ready, because he could feel Mickey’s hot breath ghosting over him.

When he felt the hot wet drag of Mickey’s tongue over the head of his cock, Ian whined, folding his arms over his face, not knowing what else to do with himself. Mickey very slowly worked him into his mouth. So soft and wet and hot and Ian was beside himself, so worked up from Mickey’s mouth all over him already, so on edge, that he can’t even do anything but take it. And it was so fucking good.

He’s slurring out words that he’s not even sure are real words, and Mickey is working his mouth so good, taking him deep with just the right pressure. Because Mickey knows Ian so well now, knows what to do and fucking loves doing it. And knowing that, Ian is —if possible— turned on even more.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Ian grunts, eyes rolling back as Mickey replaces his mouth with his hand, stroking him slow and hard and purposefully. 

Ian’s not sure how he does it so fluidly, but Mickey moves to lay against his side, without once stopping his strokes. Mickey mouthes and kisses at his shoulder, pressing against him, moving his lips to his throat, to his ear, biting and dragging his tongue over his skin.

It’s so good, feels so fucking good and Ian wants to kiss his boyfriend, turns his head to do so, but Mickey nudges him to stay where he is, so he does, shuddering and moaning, keeping all his focus on what is happening to him. It’s so good.

Mickey presses his mouth right up against Ian’s ear, “You’re so good for me,” he breathes. “So important to me, you have no fucking idea.”

Ian keens, doesn't mean to, but he does because everything this man says goes straight to his bones and imprints there. His back arches and he feels like he’s lost control, but he has absolutely no motivation to gain it back. Mickey can have it all. 

“That’s it, baby,” Mickey murmurs, his grip tightening just enough for everything to go fuzzy for a second. “Show me how good you are.”

He’s melting, he fucking _swears_ he’s melting right into the mattress. That doesn't happen a lot, when Mickey calls him baby. Ian doesn't know why, it just doesn't happen that much, but when it does, the way it rolls off his boyfriends tongue is fucking silk and warmth and makes Ian feel like he’s got electric running through him.

He needs him. Ian turns, facing Mickey, wrapping an arm around him, kissing him hard, moaning loudly against his mouth —the moan gets all distorted form the kiss, sounds weird, but neither one of them care. Mickey keeps working him with his hand while they kiss, while Ian feels himself slip further and further towards the edge.

Ian shudders and clings tightly to Mickey when he hears those words again, the words that make his chest feel like it’s about to explode. Mickey breathes them softly between kisses, telling Ian how important he is to him, how good he is for him, how he’s _it_ for him, he’s the only one he wants. 

It’s hard to believe that his Mickey is saying these things, but he’s not about to question it. Mickey’s not too big on the sharing feelings, but when he does, it’s fucking raw and the truth, said so quietly, just for Ian’s ears. And fuck, Ian want’s to say all these _things_ , but he can’t make his mouth work that way, he can’t get enough control to say it, to tell Mickey what he needs to tell him.

Mickey just knows Ian well enough to know it’s almost that time, so he breaks the kiss. Ian doesn’t want it to end, but he lays back on his back and tries to breathe evenly, watching the brunette slip back down the bed until that hot, soft mouth is all around him again.

“God, Mickey… _fuck_ ,” Ian rocks his hips up into Mickey’s mouth. 

Mickey hums around him, slow and deep while he takes all that he can, until Ian hits the back of his throat. And Ian can’t hold on long after that, it’s so good and so much and he’s completely overwhelmed, feeling so much at one time. Mickey puts a hand on his abdomen, rubbing up and down, pressing into him, taking him deeply into his mouth. Ian gives a barely-enough-time warning and he’s falling falling falling… gone.

His boyfriend takes everything, swallowing him down with a soft hum, sending chills through Ian’s body. After a moment, after Ian’s given all he’s going to give, Mickey slips him from his mouth and grins up at him, but Ian can barely focus, breathing too hard, chest heaving up and down, world tilting on it’s axis.

It could be the post-blowjob euphoria talking, but Ian’s _pretty_ fucking sure he’s in love with Mickey Milkovich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for commenting and kudos and subscribing to this and all the love that this has been getting! Makes me so happy and excited to write :)  
> Xx love you all!
> 
> I will be taking a short pause on this story, to work on the next chapter to A World Alone. I'm absolutely not going to abandon this, I just really need to buckle down and work on AWA. Again, short pause. No longer than a week, hopefully. Also, I can feel myself lagging on this story, so I need to switch it up and come back with fresher eyes :)


	9. Ambushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you live around here?” Ian chanced the question, glancing over at Mandy.
> 
> “Nope,” Mandy replied, pulling up in front of a two story house. She put the car in park, but left the engine running, folding her hands in her lap as she looked over at him. “But you’re not here to ask questions. You’re here to answer them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm... I'd say a little heavy in dialogue this chapter. Kinda.

_Milkovich_. Ian found out Mickey’s last name when they decided that they were going to try the relationship thing. He’d been fucking the guy for six months, slowly realizing his feelings ran deeper for the brunette and during that whole time, he never knew his last name. It was weird, but that’s the life of the job —of being an escort.

He did recognize the name, vaguely. He knew that the Milkoviches moved out of South Side a long time ago. They were rough, dangerous, neck deep in crime and violence. The kind of family that even the most native of South Siders didn't really want their children associating with. And like a true bastardized rags to riches story, they got out and made some serious cash.

Ian didn’t have the full story, just bits and pieces. Basically, the Milkoviches started out with running thee things: numbers, guns, and drugs. Then somehow Terry got the family into the chop shop business —breaking down cars for these scary ass organizations, getting paid well for it. Eventually they started taking on more jobs. 

They’re middle-men who don’t have loyalties. It was dangerous not to have those loyalties, but it paid well. They ended up being the go-to family to just get shit done. Whatever you needed, they got it handled.

Terry took their little one-family-garage operation and expanded it, breaking down luxury cars, doing whatever it was that they needed to do to make sure the cars wouldn't and couldn't be traced back (Ian didn’t know how that shit worked, didn’t ask either). And the rest of it, cliche as it sounds, is history.

Mickey, even though he’s the youngest son, is kind of the head of it all, now that Terry’s dead. The guy that has his hands in everything —making plans, making deals, handling things. He’s got a couple older brothers and his twin sister, each having their own duties, having their own jobs to take care of. A true family business. 

All Ian really knew was that it was severely complicated and Mickey was trying to downsize, trying to get away from the _really_ bad shit that they did.

So with all that being said, when Mandy Milkovich showed up at Ian’s apartment, unreadable expression on her face, telling Ian to get dressed and come with her… he hesitated.

“You’re not scared of a girl, are you?” Mandy finally grinned at him, teasing him.

Well, if that girl so happened to be a _Milkovich_ … yes. Ian tried to play it off, tried to give her a little grin back and shrug, “Where are we going?”

“For a ride,” she only offered. “Come on, get dressed, we're on a time-table.”

Well. Okay. Ian sighed and went to his room to change out of his sweats and something a little more nicer to go out… _somewhere_. Hopefully not anywhere too isolated. Mickey said his sister was a nice girl, but she was also no-bullshit and could be brutal if she needed to be. So… _great_ , right? Fan-fucking-tastic.

He followed Mandy down to her car. It was a lot like Mickey’s. Dark, nothing too flashy with leather interior. Mandy was quiet, sitting behind the wheel, pulling out of Ian’s apartment complex. He didn’t know whether this was a really fucking stupid move on his part or not. She wouldn’t actually hurt him, right? She was cool about him and Mickey over a week ago, said she didn’t care, so… what the hell was going on?

It was still quiet as Mandy drove. They ended up in a nice neighborhood. Like really nice, the kind of neighborhood with perfect lawns and shiny luxury cars tucked away in garages. Ian couldn't help but look around, wondering what it would be like. He didn’t think that he’d get that kind of life, but it was nice to daydream.

“Do you live around here?” Ian chanced the question, glancing over at Mandy.

“Nope,” Mandy replied, pulling up in front of a two story house. She put the car in park, but left the engine running, folding her hands in her lap as she looked over at him. “But you’re not here to ask questions. You’re here to answer them.”

Ian swallowed hard like one of those old cartoon characters who was about to land in some serious shit, “Okay.”

“So, how long have you been working?”

Ian felt himself flush, “Uhm.”

“Chris Hearn, your pimp,” Mandy supplies. “How long have you been working for him?”

Ian took a deep breath, trying to figure out what the fuck was happening right now, “How do you… what the hell is going on—”

“I got my brother pretty fucking wasted the other night because I was tired of him ignoring me when I asked about you,” Mandy told him. “He can knock ‘em back, but you get enough booze and weed in that man, he is very cooperative. Kinda _chatty_ actually.”

Ian frowned at her, “Kind of a dick move.”

“I’m kind of a dick,” she smirked. God, she was terrifying. “I’m just trying to get to know you. You _are_ fucking my brother regularly, after all… and a bunch of other men. You understand how I’m a little concerned about your line of work. So, again… how long have you been working?”

“Jesus,” Ian muttered, running a hand over his hair. There was no judgement in Mandy's voice or face, but it was still uncomfortable. “Like a year and a half, I guess.”

“How long have you known Mickey?”

Ian exhaled heavily, “Coming up on a year.”

“And how often do you get tested?”

Ian kept his eyes glued to the little digital clock on Mandy’s radio. Quarter past two and he already wanted to tuck in for the night, “Every month. And before you ask, I always use protection with clients —and with Mickey.”

“Every time?” Mandy asked.

Ian nodded, finally looking over at her, “Every time.”

Mandy seemed satisfied enough with his answer, relaxing back into her seat, staring straight ahead. Ian wanted to leave. Didn’t know what the fuck was going on, where they were, why they were here… he just wanted to leave.

“Does he pay your bills? Buy you things?”

Ian drew his brows together, “It’s not like that, I’m not a gold-digger. Yeah, he takes me out of town every other weekend, but that’s just so we can spend some fucking time together—”

Mandy laughed, looking over at him, “Alright. Calm down there, red. You seem like a smart guy, so you understand why I’m asking you this shit, right?”

He nodded, “Yeah, I know.” 

Mickey was a guy ‘with means’. And Ian wasn’t fucking oblivious to the fact that on the outside of this relationship, things looks _really_ fucking shady. He understood that, but still the reminder was like a slap in the face.

“So, are you serious about him?”

“Very much so.”

“And he’s good with you still working?” Mandy arched a skeptical brow at him. “I dunno about how he is with dick, but I can tell you first hand that that motherfucker was _not_ into sharing his Lego’s with me when we were little.”

Ian snorted a laugh and then sighed, “We make it work.”

She hummed, nodding her head, eyes giving him a once-over, “Speaking of. What do you know about _his_ work?”

“I don’t know anything about his work,” Ian lied easily, briefly slipping into that escort mindset, the easy lies. “Other than you all have a few top-of-the-line garages. It’s not really my thing though.”

Mandy laughed, reaching over and patting his knee, “Good answer.”

Ian huffed, unable to stop running a hand over his hair. He was tense, and while Mandy wasn’t straight-up threatening him, there was this underlying message of _don’t bullshit me and you’ll be okay_. He’d _never_ tell Mickey this, but Mandy was a little scarier than he was -to Ian, at least.

“Can I ask you something now?” Ian turned in his seat a little to face Mandy.

She nodded.

“Where the hell are we and… why? What is going on?”

Mandy nodded to the house across the street from where they were parked. It was also two stories, brick, pretty lawn, white columns. Pretty much your standard _we’ve got money and go to PTA meetings_ kind of house. 

“That’s Mickey’s house.”

Ian got a very sudden bad taste in his mouth and a sharp pull at his gut. He panicked, reaching for the car door handle, not wanting any part of this. He knew that Mickey’s marriage and everything about his life in that marriage was forced, but it didn’t negate the fact that it was fucking tangible and real and personal. He shouldn't be here. Mandy shouldn't have brought him here. This wasn’t right.

He was basically the fucking _mistress,_ and being in the same vicinity as where Mickey’s son lived, where his wife lived… fuck. This was not okay. About ten tons of guilt was pooling in Ian’s gut all at once. 

“Stop —Ian stop,” Mandy sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder, stilling him. “I’m not a fucking monster, I didn’t bring you here to make you feel guilty or to shove this in your face. So stay in the car.”

“Why the _hell_ would you bring me here? Mickey’s gonna fucking flip, do you know what you’re—”

“Yes. I know. And I’ll deal with that, okay? This isn’t your fault, you didn’t ask to come here, I brought you here. _I’m_ going to be in a world of shit, not you, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“The last time I didn’t do anything wrong, I got kicked out of Mickey’s fucking apartment,” Ian snapped, scrubbing his fingertips over his face. “I shouldn’t fucking be here. Please take me back home, Mandy. Seriously, I can’t be here— I don’t want to see this.”

“Don’t want to see what?”

Ian swallowed, forcing himself not to fall apart right then abad there. Fuck, he felt so fucking weak right now, weak and like a complete monster. “He left his family because of me. His son… I know they don’t have a good relationship, but he left him because of me. So… I don’t want to see that. I’ve been that kid left behind and…”

Mandy shook her head, reaching over to put her hand on top of his, “Ian, let me explain something to you… after my dad died, it was only a matter of time before Mickey left that house. He still takes care of them, whatever they need… and if something ever goes wrong, he’ll be there. But he just can’t be around them, living with them. And that’s _no one’s_ fault except for my dad’s. Terry created that.”

“Yeah, but his son—”

“Is no longer living with his father, who can barely have a conversation with him,” Mandy cut him off. She nodded back across the street, “Look.”

Ian looked to where Mandy was and his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t hard to tell which kid was Mickey’s. Walking down the sidewalk with backpacks on, were three boys, but the one in the middle, with the dark hair and the wide dimpled grin… that was Yev.

He couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from pulling up in a little grin. The kid wasn’t built stocky like Mickey, but he walked like him, stealing the light all for himself. He was around Liam’s age, and he talked animately with the two other boys, hands gesturing and eyebrows working furiously, much like his father. The other boys laughed at whatever it was he said, following Yev to the front door of his house.

Mickey’s relationship with his son was so fucking complicated. Ian knew that Mickey cared about his kid in the sense that that was his child and he felt a moral obligation to give a shit about him. He provided for him, was _pretty_ involved in his education and all of that… but he couldn't connect with him. He couldn't bond. And Ian knew that Mickey felt this suffocating guilt because of that, because he knew it wasn’t Yev’s fault. 

Yev was the product of Mickey’s worst nightmare coming to life, and a constant reminder of that for the last twelve years. So, Mickey could barely stand to be around the kid for too long. _However_ , it had gotten better since Terry died.

But on the flip side of that, Mickey told Ian about this one time Yev got knocked around in school by this asshole kid —parents were called, a meeting was scheduled, blah blah blah. And Mickey cornered the kid’s dad after the meeting and said something to the effect of _If that little bastard ever touches my son again, I will come to your house and break every bone in your fucking body._

So, complicated was a good word for how Mickey felt about his son.

“I don’t understand why you brought me here,” Ian tore his eyes away from the house when the door closed behind the boys.

“Because I owe a pretty fucking huge favor to my friend. And I’m really sorry I’m putting you in this position… I know it’s uncomfortable. I actually really like you, I think you’re a good guy. So I hope maybe one day we can get past this, because Mickey really _really_ cares about you.”

Ian frowned, “What? What are you talking about?”

Mandy’s eyes shifted to look past Ian, again nodding across the street. His whole body felt like it was sinking, not wanting to turn around and face what he knew was happening. But he bit the bullet and turned his head, heart thundering loud in his chest. This was so fucked up. This was so incredibly fucked up and Ian wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

She was beautiful and fierce looking. Brown wavy hair, comfortable but nice clothes… and walking right towards the car. Ian sunk a little in his seat, glaring over at Mandy, “What the _fuck_ is going on?”

“You’re fine,” Mandy said, rolling his window down. “She just wants to talk to you.”

“How does she _know_ about me?”

“Because I am not stupid fucking idiot,” a sharp Russian accent said, making Ian whip his head around to find Svetlana leaning her hip against the car, staring down at him. “My husband leaves town for whole weekends, you think I don’t know what’s going on?”

Ian stayed silent, unable to look at Mickey’s wife. Again, he knew the relationship never was good, it was never _wanted_ , but _again_ … the fact remained that it was real. His stomach turned and he couldn't remember the last time he was this uncomfortable.

“You smoke?” Svetlana held out an open pack of cigarettes to Ian. 

He nodded, taking one and setting it between his lips. His whole face heated up when Svetlana leaned down and held out a lit lighter in front of him. It was so fucking surreal, leaning forward to light his cigarette off of the flame that his boyfriends wife offered to him. 

He finally looked at her, straight into her eyes —they were green and looking at him like he was a struggling little fly caught in her web. To be fair… he kind of was.

“There have been others,” Svetlana tells him as she straightens back up. “There have always been others, but you are different. Mandy says he trusts you, wants more than what you have between your legs.”

Ian pulls hard on his cigarette, glancing over at Mandy, who was just looking at him, face completely passive. He plead with his nerves to calm the fuck down. He was really ready to wake the fuck up. Anytime now. He was so completely done with this nightmare. This was probably the worst-case-scenario for him. And it was happening. Actually fucking happening, being confronted like this. Fucking hell.

“I ask Mandy to bring you here to tell you that Yevgeny comes first,” Svetlana said, face growing very serious. “Trying to get my husband to be involved in our sons life is hard enough. He takes care of his son _first_ —Yevgeny is _first_. You have problem with this, you try to take my husband away from my son, I make you disappear. No more pretty orange boy.”

Ian flushed, knowing that it wasn’t an empty threat and quickly realizing that Milkovich women —either born or married in— were _not_ people he wanted to be on the wrong side of. Holy fuck what the hell had he landed in? The fucking lion’s den, that’s what.

She kept saying _my husband_ and Ian wondered if there was a safe word for life -like, he wondered if he could blurt out _bananas_ and then be snapped back to his apartment. He understood what she was trying to do and he couldn't fault her for trying to protect what little relationship her kid had with his father. He got it, but this whole conversation, this whole situation was so fucking uncomfortable.

“I wouldn't _ever_ try to get between Mickey and Yevg… uhm, Yev—”

“Yevgeny,” Svetlana pulled on her cigarette. 

“Yevgeny,” Ian repeated, nodding.

Svetlana arched a brow at him, “Yevgeny has science fair Friday night. You will be busy, understand? You will not be taking up my husband’s time Friday night, so he has no excuses for not going.”

“You want me to lie to him?” Ian asked. 

He immediately felt like a piece of shit for asking the question, because a huge part of him agreed with Svetlana in that moment. He remembered all those science fairs and other school projects where he wished his parents would have been there, giving a shit like normal parents. 

This was a completely different situation, since Mickey actually _did_ give a shit about Yev —both of the kids parents gave a shit about him. But still, just remembering how it felt when someone asked where his parents were, and having to respond with some bullshit excuse… _fuck_.

Her smile was sharp as she exhaled a cloud of smoke, “I don’t give a shit what you do, just make sure you are not taking up his time Friday.”

And then, that was it. After saying goodbye to Mandy, and giving Ian one last once-over, Svetlana Milkovich went back into her pretty house. Ian was left there in the car with Mandy Milkovich, feeling so completely disconnected from everything, that he couldn't do much else besides keep his eyes trained out the front windshield.

Mandy kept pretty quiet as she drove out of the neighborhood. Ian didn’t know what to think or feel, could barely process what the fuck just happened.

 

* * *

 

“I’ll talk to Mickey,” Mandy finally spoke when they got back to Ian’s apartment’s parking lot. “I’ll explain what happened. It’ll be fine.”

Ian just shook his head, his body still kind of worked up, not sure how he felt towards Mandy right now. Fucking ambushed like that though. Fucked up. He didn’t say anything to Mandy, just got out of her car and didn’t look back as he walked into his building. 

He kept thinking of when Mickey pushed him away, kicked him out of the apartment because Mandy caught them. Ian didn’t want to go through that shit again. He didn’t want to fight with Mickey again, didn’t want to have to deal with the aftermath of shit that wasn’t his fucking fault.

When he finally got got into his apartment, closing and locking the door behind him, he ran his hands through his hair, roughly pulling at it, frustrated, eyes stinging. It was too much, all at once. He replayed that whole time in the car over and over again. 

And he felt so fucking weak and pathetic about it, but all he really could think to do right then and there was fucking cry. Other than that, he honestly just didn’t know what to do with himself. What was the proper reaction to this? What was the fucking protocol? God _damnit_.

He called Chris, didn’t want to, but he did, “I need something to do Friday night.”

Chris laughed, “Not sure if I got anything for you.”

Ian sighed, flopping down on his bed, “Can you move my Thursday to Friday? Please?”

There was a long pause before Chris answered, “I can make a call. No promises.”

“Thanks.”

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Ian lied. “Just, you know… trying to get out of a family thing.”

His boss laughed, “Ah, shit, I know how that is.”

Ian rolled his eyes, forced a laugh, “Yeah. I got to go, but let me know if that works out, please?”

“Yeah, I got you,” Chris said before he hung up.

Ian tossed his phone to his side and closed his eyes, trying to calm down. What the fuck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people may be upset with Mandy right now. I understand.
> 
> Also, I know these last couple chapters have been shorter than the first 5 or 6, but that's mainly because I went SO fucking hard at the start of this story *holds back ploughing joke*. Also sex scenes eat up words like *holds back ass-eating joke*.
> 
> Anyways, it's probably safe to say to expect future chapters for this to be around this length, maybe a little longer. Also I'm thinking about diving into some Mickey POV. Maybe. We'll see.


	10. Not To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was out of his control at this point. He had to hit something; Mickey slammed his fist on the top of his desk, making his sister jump and recoil as if he’d reached over and slapped her. He stood from his chair, grabbing his phone and car keys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of like a part 1, so please excuse the length.
> 
> This chapter and the next will be in Mickey's POV.

Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip as he looked at his sister from across his desk. It felt like his clothes were trying to suffocate him. He couldn't really pinpoint when the last time was that he was _this_ fucking angry at his sister. He’d never raised a hand to her before (not seriously) and wouldn’t now, but holy mother of _god_ it was tempting.

Any and all thought of _hey I still gotta keep the whole gay thing a secret and we can’t talk about it here_ was out of the fucking window. None of that shit mattered in that moment because Mickey Milkovich’s own fucking sister hurt someone he loved. And she knew it.

Mandy looked down at her hands that were folded in her lap, “I just wanted you to hear it from me first. I know it was fucked up—”

It was out of his control at this point. He had to hit something; Mickey slammed his fist on the top of his desk, making his sister jump and recoil as if he’d reached over and slapped her. He stood from his chair, grabbing his phone and car keys. 

“Mickey, please, listen—”

“No,” he shook his head, glaring hard at Mandy. “I expect this shit from Svet, but not you! Do you even get it? Do you _realize_ what you fucking did?”

“We were looking out for you!” Mandy said. “We were looking out for your son! Svetlana is worried that you’ll pull away even more from Yev. She’s worried that Ian will take you away from him.”

“ _I_ put food in that kid’s belly! _I_ keep a roof over his head!” Mickey spat, ticking off his fingers. “ _I_ send him to fucking private school, _I_ buy him new clothes! Kid broke his fucking arm last year, I was at the fucking hospital.”

“I know, Mickey I know,” Mandy’s eyes were wide as she scrambled for the words, trying to pacify him. “She’s scared that now you’re in a relationship, you’ll just drop him completely—”

“I didn’t _want_ that fucking kid!” Mickey snapped.

“Mickey,” Mandy sighed, “You always regret saying—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he _did_ regret it as soon as it left his mouth, but he pushed it down because the anger that was radiating through his bones right now was overwhelming everything else. “Here I was, fucking stupid enough to think that my sister was trying to hang out with me like we used to. Got me fucking wasted and _comfortable_ for the first time in _years_ ; hope you’re proud of yourself. Stupid me, you were just pumping me for information, for that bitch.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, fuck you Mandy!” Mickey spat, moving around his desk to get to the door. “What _you_ did wasn’t fair —it wasn’t your fucking business! Now because of you and my fucking wife, I have to fix this mess before…” he trailed off, feeling a knot in his stomach. What if Ian left him? What if he ended things because of this shit? It was like he was being punished for a crime he didn't remember committing.

“The fuck did I do to you?” Mickey asked his sister. “Huh? What did I do?”

Mandy stood from her chair, meeting him at the door, eyes glassy. She reached out to touch his shoulder, but Mickey moved out of her reach. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just… I owe Svetlana and—”

“You don’t owe her _shit;_ family doesn’t _owe_ family like that,” Mickey snarled. “Even if you did, you don’t do that to _me!_ Not to me! Taking him to _Svetlana_ , to my fucking house, show him my fucking son… what the _fuck_ , Mandy? Who the fuck _are_ you?”

Mickey and his sister were never best friends, but they used to be damn close. They used to have this understanding —maybe it was a twin thing, Mickey didn’t really give a shit— but they had an understanding and a closeness and it used to be fucking unbreakable. Shaky sometimes, but at the end of the day, unbreakable. 

Then, in the past year, since she’d gotten involved with the latest guy —Peter or Preston _whatever_ — she’d gotten this fucking… _streak_. This really not-Mandy mean girl streak. Mandy wasn't fucking like this. She wasn't petty and cruel for no fucking reason; yeah, she was always a bitch, but not like _this_.

And Mickey couldn't figure out how once Peter/Preston popped up, this happened. The guy was _okay_ , as far as Mickey could tell, even though he was one of those old-money types. He knew that trying to blame Mandy's boyfriend was probably kind of a cop-out, but Mickey was honestly grasping at fucking straws here.

So what the fuck happened? Was his sister just turning into this _bitch_? Did that just fucking happen sometimes? Fuck.

She was crying now, tears brimming in her eyes and falling down her face. Mickey couldn't remember the last time he’d yelled at her like that, couldn't remember the last time she cried.

“I’m allowed this now,” Mickey’s said, voice low and harsh. “I’m allowed to be _happy_ now. Do you fucking understand that? I did my fucking time, I earned it. And as soon as we’re free from these assholes dad got us mixed up with, I’m gonna get what I fucking earned. I _earned_ this! And it’s got nothing to do with you or Svet —nothing!”

“I know,” Mandy hiccuped, wiping at her face. “I know you did—” 

“So why the _fuck_ are you trying to take it away from me?” Mickey clenched his jaw, eyebrows raised. “What did I do to you?”

Mandy shook her head, “You didn’t do anything, Mick, and I’m not trying to take it away, I promise I’m not. I want you to be happy. I’m so sorry —I’ll fix it, okay? I can fix this.”

"You can't fix _shit_ ," he snorted a humorless laugh. “You know what… you tell your new best friend that she better stay the fuck outta my way from now on, otherwise she’ll be back on the street, blowing guys for twenty bucks a pop, and the kid’ll be dropped off at DCFS. Maybe she’ll remember who the _fuck_ she is then.”

Mandy had this horrified, wide-eyed look on her face, “You can’t punish Yev for—”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want. Fuck you, we’re done,” Mickey snapped, pulling his office door open, leaving his sister behind as he made his way to his car.

 

* * *

 

He almost broke the fucking doorknob off trying to get it to open. Mickey pushed hard against Ian’s apartment door, shaking at the handle until it finally gave, opening up. If Ian wasn’t going to talk to his fucking landlord about that, Mickey was just going to have to do it for him. Shit was ridiculous.

“Ian,” Mickey called into the small apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. "Ian?"

There was no answer, but Mickey heard the shower running then switch off, so he shed his jacket and made his way to Ian’s bedroom, knocking lightly on the bathroom door.

“Ian,” he said again.

“Yeah?” Ian opened the door, scrubbing his wet hair with a towel, not bothering to cover the rest of him up; Ian wasn't modest around Mickey like that. And why should he be? He was fucking beautiful.

Mickey cleared his throat, “Mandy told me what she did. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know she’d pull something like that.”

Ian paused for a second before throwing his towel over the edge of the bathtub. He gave Mickey a little helpless shrug, a little barely-there grin, “They were looking out for you.”

What the fuck, “Are you serious right now?”

Ian was quiet as he walked to his dresser, pulling out boxers and sweatpants, “I’m a big boy, Mickey. I’m fine.”

“Can you stop whatever it is you’re doing and fucking _react_ , please?” Mickey pulled a face, watching his boyfriend put his clothes on.

Ian gave him a slow smile, reaching for his hips to pull him close, his hands slipping behind Mickey to grab his ass, “Rather _you_ react when I have your cock down my—”

“Ian,” Mickey gently pulled out of his hold, “The fuck are you doing? What the hell is this? Is everyone out of their fucking minds today?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Ian said, his whole face falling just a little bit. “I fuck guys for a living and your sister was concerned… I get it. And your wife just doesn't want your kid to be abandoned. I was that kid. I know how that is. So… I get that too.”

“I _don’t_ get it,” Mickey shook his head. “It’s not their fucking business —you and me, that’s us! Ain’t got shit to do with them, ain’t got shit to do with my kid!”

"But Mickey—"

"No, no _but Mickey_ , no _I get it_ ," he bit out. "This is because of _me_ , so be mad at me, be mad at them, be fucking something other than _I get it_! It's not okay -what they did is not fucking okay, so _react_! Please."

Ian went quiet, chewing on his bottom lip; Mickey was shaking, breathing hard; he would’ve given anything to be able to read Ian's mind. He wanted hear Ian yell and scream and -fuck, _anything_ \- hit him, do something! 

Then the longer they stood there, watching each other, the longer the silence settled and Mickey's breath slowed down, the only thing he really wanted to do was touch Ian, to run his hands over his shoulders and press into the back of his neck. Mickey liked the way Ian felt under his hands, liked that Ian liked him touching him. It grounded him; seemed to ground both of them. Mickey wanted to do that for him now, but the quiet, hesitant face that Ian was making was worrying Mickey.

“I…” Ian hesitated, taking a deep breath. 

Mickey felt his heart lodge in his throat. Fuck, please don’t. He shouldn't have fucking yelled like that.

“I’m not mad at you. I don’t even know if I’m _mad_ —I don't know what the fuck I’m feeling right now, so I don't know what to do; it was so fucking uncomfortable and stressful. But… I’m fine, okay? Honestly, I was scared this would make you pull back again,” Ian finally admitted. 

“Ian…” Mickey exhaled in a rush, pulling Ian close, wrapping his arms around his shoulders tight. He pushed his mouth against the side of Ian’s neck and sighed, relaxing when Ian wrapped his arms around him in return. 

His skin was soft and still damp, and smelled so fucking good. Mickey breathed him in, brushing his fingers through the back of Ian’s damp hair. Slowly, he felt Ian’s tense body start to loosen up, hugging him tighter, pressing his face into the top of his shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” Mickey whispered. “You didn’t do anything wrong. M’so fucking sorry they pulled that shit. Fuck, I mean… are you okay?”

“I’m okay. But it’s not _your_ fault, you didn’t set that up,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s shoulder, rubbing his face against him, not letting go. 

“My family though,” Mickey gently scrubbed his fingertips against Ian’s scalp, “My stupid fucking sister and that bitch. Fuck, I’m sorry, babe.”

"I was just scared you'd pull away again."

When Mickey felt Ian shake against him, his mind split in two different directions. The first, he needed to go talk to Svetlana. Preferably with some kind of supervision because right at that moment, he was _not_ confident he wouldn't kill the bitch.  And the second, he was just so fucking lost, and scared that Ian would decided that he couldn't handle this —that his family was fucked up and he didn't want any part of it _or_ Mickey. And Mickey couldn't handle that. 

If there was any justice or god or any higher power, they would cut Mickey a fucking break just this once. He was going to fix this. This shit wouldn't happen again, but he needed Ian to just… be okay, and trust him.

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry, babe,” Mickey whispered against Ian’s neck, just standing there and holding him, letting his boyfriend do whatever he needed to do. Mickey wasn’t always the best at comforting people, but right now he kind of had to be. Fucking Mandy. Fucking Svetlana.

“You’re allowed to be mad,” Mickey continued. “Be mad, okay? I’m fucking mad, so be mad with me, I need someone to yell with.”

Ian breathed a quiet laugh against him and Mickey squeezed him tighter.

Mandy told him about Svetlana, and what that bitch said. In the past twelve years, they had managed to become friends. And in one afternoon, she completely fucking ruined that. It was so out of line that Mickey had a hard time wrapping his fucking head around what they were thinking. How the hell did they think that was a good idea —that  _that_  was okay? 

And she told him about the questions. The invasive, personal questions that she asked him. She told him about showing Ian Yev, how she tried, in her own way, to tell Ian that Yev was better off without Mickey in the house. He assumed that Mandy's way was just... not the right way. If there was a right way. (It wasn't her place, so honestly, there wasn't a right way for her to do that, but still.)

“Why did you take a shower?” Mickey asked, keeping his voice soft.

Ian didn’t answer him, but his hands curled up in the back of Mickey’s shirt.

Mickey sighed, leaning back to hold either side of Ian’s face and look at him. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer, but it never came. Even though Ian was taller than him, he seemed so fucking small. 

“You’re good for me,” Mickey told him. “All of you, every fucking part.”

Ian rolled his eyes, snorting an uncomfortable laugh, “Mick, stop.”

Mickey shook his head, letting his truth fall out of his mouth, because that’s what Ian did for him, “You’re the most important person to me. I’m sorry they made you feel like that. Not ever gonna happen again, okay? I promise. That shit will _never_ happen again.”

Ian leaned into his touch, but his eyes were trained on Mickey’s shoulder, “Don’t need you to protect me from a couple of mean girls, Mick. M’fine. South Side, remember? Been through worse than people trying to intimidate me.”

“Those bitches are scary, okay? I would think something’s seriously wrong with you if they didn't fucking scare you.”

Ian snorted an empty laugh, his face reddening up a little. 

Mickey tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come; he swiped his thumbs under Ian's wet eyes, wishing he'd look at him, but he was still staring at his shoulder, “Ay.”

Ian finally looked Mickey in the eyes; rimmed in red and wet, but they were still beautiful green. Mickey loved Ian’s eyes. “Do you take care of me?” Mickey asked him.

Ian sniffed, but nodded.

“So can you let me take care of you, please? Is that okay?”

Again, Ian sniffed and nodded.

“C’mere,” Mickey kept his voice soft, waiting for Ian to lean forward. He did, Ian leaned forward, pressing his lips against Mickey’s. The kiss was soft and little, but it made the pressure in Mickey’s chest go away.

“You tired?” he asked Ian.

“I was gonna take a nap or something. Kinda drained," Ian nodded. "You have to go back to work?”

Mickey shook his head, putting a little space between him and Ian so he could strip down to his boxers, “Wanna stay with you.”

Ian gave him a lopsided smile, “You don’t have to. I know you’re busy.”

“That shit doesn’t matter to me right now,” Mickey replied, pulling his shirt over his head. He then grabbed his phone from his back pocket and showed Ian that he was turning it off. “You’re more important, a’ight?”

They climbed into bed, getting under Ian’s blankets, tangling up in each other. Mickey would be fucking lying if he said that he wasn’t still worried that something was going to click in Ian’s head and he’d realize that he wanted nothing to do with him because of what happened with Svetlana and Mandy.

“Are we okay?” Mickey asked Ian.

Ian gave him a lopsided smile, “If we weren’t, you wouldn’t be in my bed. _We’re_ okay. Me and your sister and your wife? Not so much. But we are.”

Mickey nodded as he kept looking and Ian; face to face, Mickey’s fingers brushing through the side of Ian’s hair, watching the redhead close his eyes and relax. Ian held him close, their noses just barely brushing up against each other. 

It was so strange, how a _need_ months and months (almost a year) ago turned into this. How that need combined with a need for discretion lead him to this guy. This complicated, amazing guy that just made everything better, made him _himself_. Everyone else faded away. Mickey didn’t want anyone else, couldn't imagine being with anyone else. 

It was just Ian. Just him. And he'd be damned if he was going to let anyone try to take that away from him. Ian took care of him, let him be okay with being happy. Let him be okay with peeling back the armor, breaking the walls down. He was good for him. Mickey hoped that he was good for Ian too -he was worried that he wasn't, especially after today.

He opened his mouth, but quickly shut it again, eyes closing. Instead, he pressed himself closer to Ian, wrapping his arm around him. 


	11. Do What I Have To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m uh, seeing someone,” Mickey said.
> 
> Iggy laughed, thumping a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, “About fucking time, man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah. Okay so the chapter after this will be in Mickey's pov as well.
> 
> Please excuse any glaring mistakes/weird words, whatever. As usual, not beta'd. Also I was having a hard time editing before posting; idk lol

Fingers brushing into his hair woke him up. The soft touch, fluid and steady, over and over again, brushing into his hair, just barely pressing against his scalp. Mickey hummed softly, arm tightening around Ian’s body.

He felt Ian’s soft mouth press against his and he completely melted into it, slotting his leg between Ian’s, making sure not even air was separating them, _melted_. For the first time in a long fucking time, he didn’t have that _gotta check my phone_ feeling, wondering if everything was okay with work. Fuck the business. Fuck the world. Ian was kissing him and was pressing against him and that was literally the only thing that Mickey cared about.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and pulled back from the kiss, seeing Ian staring right back at him. “We should just stay here all weekend,” Mickey breathed. “After Thursday, just lock the fucking door and stay here till Monday.”

Ian paused, “My Thursday might be moved to Friday.”

Mickey frowned, “Why?”

“Well,” Ian gave a nervous laugh. “Uh, because I called Chris to see if he could switch it, when I got home earlier.”

“How come?” Mickey prompted, frown still in place.

Ian took a deep breath, “Yev has his science fair on Friday night and your wife would really like if you went.”

Mickey started counting in his head. He counted, did quick math, ran whatever numbers he could think of, to keep himself in check. It was getting so fucking hot under Ian’s blankets now, and with Ian pressed against him. Their combined body heat was almost stifling.

“Who knows, maybe it’ll be cool,” Ian’s voice was quiet, a little hopeful. “Maybe he did some cool experiment. I don’t want to get between you and Yev, you know?”

“He’s got nothing to fucking do with us,” Mickey bit out, his anger not directed at Ian, even though that’s what it probably sounded like.

Ian nodded, “I know that… I just, you know, I don’t want to get between you two and I uh… would _really_ rather not get on your wife’s bad side even more than I already am.”

_Fuck_. Mickey pulled back a little from Ian so he could get a better look at him. He knew where this was going —Svetlana was nothing if not predictable, “Did she fucking threaten you?”

“I don’t wanna cause any problems, Mickey,” Ian sighed.

“Fucking _bitch_ …” Mickey untangled himself from Ian and slipped out of bed. Mandy forgot to mention _that_ little fucking detail about today. He snatched his pants off of the floor and tugged them on.

“Where are you going?”

Mickey glanced over at Ian. The redhead was sitting up in bed, blankets and sheets pooled around his hips, hair sticking up all over the place. He looked good, and his bed was comfortable, and all Mickey really wanted to do was climb back in.

“What did she say to you?” Mickey asked, turning his phone back on. It was _late_ —fuck, they slept a long time. He had five text messages from Mandy, all of which were different variations of apologies. A couple missed calls from Iggy and the Italians. Great.

“Why?”

Mickey sighed, walking around the bed to Ian’s side, eyebrows raising as he waited.

Finally, Ian nodded somewhat reluctantly, “Fine. Basically, she said if I try to take you away from Yev, she’d make me… disappear.”

Mickey chewed on his bottom lip to keep from exploding. “Bitch forgot who she fucking is. I’m gonna take care of it. You don’t gotta worry about that. She’s real good at shit-talk, she doesn’t have that kind of… point is, don’t worry about it, okay?”

“I wasn’t… _really_ worried,” Ian grimaced, his statement coming out more like a question. He reached out and hooked a finger into Mickey’s belt loop, pulling him closer, “Mickey, come back to bed.”

Mickey leaned down, holding Ian’s face in his hands as he kissed him softly. Ian’s hands gripped his hips and tried to pull him into his lap, but Mickey (reluctantly) resisted, slowly breaking off the kiss and pressing his forehead against Ian’s.

“I’m gonna straighten this shit out. Gimme a couple hours, okay? Then I’ll come back and we can watch shitty TV, and do whatever you want. Sound good?”

Ian sighed softly, “I feel like I made a big fucking mess.”

Mickey held Ian’s face again, looking right in those green eyes, “Listen to me. None of this shit that happened today is your fault.”

“Okay but—”

“ _None_ of this shit that happened today is your fault,” Mickey repeated, cutting Ian off. “You did nothing wrong.”

Ian’s eyes flicked away from Mickey for a second, “Okay.”

Mickey kissed him again, deep this time, licking into his mouth, breathing into him. He cared so much about Ian, didn’t like seeing him like this. Mickey knew Ian was strong, and it’s what he loved so much about him. So he hated that his sister and Svetlana made him feel like he had to scrub his body in the shower and think that Mickey would leave him. He’d fix it. He’d make it better.

“You’re so good for me,” Mickey breathed into Ian’s mouth. “You need to know that. You’re so fucking good.”

He felt Ian grip his hips, as he moaned into the kiss. This time, Mickey let Ian drag him into his lap, grabbing roughly at his ass. He loved that. It was so tempting to just say _fuck it_ and strip back down, especially when Ian was hard and rocking under him, pressing against him like that.

“Stay,” Ian murmured. “It’s fine, okay, just… just stay.”

“I gotta do this now, if I don’t she’ll think that shit is okay,” Mickey pulled back slowly, trying to unwrap Ian’s arms wrong around his middle. “I’ll just be a couple hours, tops.”

Ian was quiet, looking at him for a little while. “Alright…”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth quirked upwards, “I’m just gonna talk to her, okay? Let me take care of you, let me do this.”

Ian nodded, face flushed, eyes kind of glinting, “Hurry. I had a bad day and I need to work out some frustration.”

Mickey arched a brow at him, a thrill shooting up his spine because _yes please_. Also because he’d been so worried this would mean the end of them. He was worried he’d lose Ian. He couldn't lose Ian, it just wouldn’t’ve been good for him to lose Ian. He was too important. He was everything.

“I’ll take care of it. Gonna make it better,” Mickey promised him, brushing his lips quickly across Ian’s as he climbed off of his lap.

“You know I don’t need you to fight my battles right?” Ian sighed. “I know you feel like you have to fix everything, but… you don’t have to fix everything.”

Mickey nodded, “I know, but this one I do. You’re my guy.”

Ian smiled at him, “Yeah?”

Mickey nodded, leaning down to give the redhead’s lips a light kiss, “Yeah.”

After Mickey finally got dressed and left Ian’s apartment, he was back on the fucking mission. He hopped in his car, trying to push down all the buzzing that was still coursing through his body. Fuck, Ian could really do a number on him. 

When he got to his car, Mickey whipped his phone up and called Iggy. “Meet me at my house,” he told him.

“Everything okay?” Iggy asked, “Fucking late, man.”

“Yeah,” Mickey sighed, “Just meet me there, okay?”

“A’ight.”

 

* * *

 

Iggy was waiting outside of the house when Mickey got there. He was leaned up against his car, pulling on a cigarette and fucking around on his phone. Mickey pulled up right behind him and got out, trying to ignore the heaviness in his chest. His heart was racing, sweat beading up under his collar. He had half a mind to nope out of this real fucking fast -jump in his car and head back to Ian's.

“S’going on?” Iggy asked him.

Mickey wiped a hand down his face and sighed, “Gotta tell you something first.”

Iggy nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Mickey cleared his throat, trying to figure out a way to put this without making it into a shit-show. Truth is, he was fucking nervous. Iggy probably already knew about him, but there was that chance that he didn’t. They never talked about this shit, so Mickey felt like he was floating out to sea.

“I’m uh, seeing someone,” Mickey said.

Iggy laughed, thumping a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, “About fucking time, man.”

“Yeah,” Mickey breathed a hollow laugh. “Svet and Mandy did something really fucked up to them, and I gotta talk to Svet and… I just need a uh, you know, a stand by—”

“Someone to stop you just in case you try to kill your wife,” Iggy nodded. “The hell she do?”

Would Mickey _really_ try to kill Svetlana? No. Svetlana was good at shit-talking, and so was Mickey. But the thing was that Mickey was pissed, and she fucking threatened Ian —and serious threat or not, she had the balls to speak to someone he cared about like that. The anger was still churning in the pit of Mickey’s belly, so… best to play it safe.

“She threatened them,” Mickey answered.

Iggy laughed, shaking his head.

“It’s not fucking funny,” Mickey pulled a face. “They fucking set this whole thing up and—”

“M’not laughing at that, I get it,” Iggy cut him off. “Can you please just drop the fucking pronoun game? Damn Mick, I _know_. We all know, ever since Svet came into the picture, man. We _all_ know.”

He clenched his jaw tightly and stared past his older brother, trying not to lose his shit. His mind was everywhere and nowhere all at once. They fucking knew? This whole fucking time, they knew?

Iggy rolled his eyes and slung an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, walking them to the house, “So what, you like dick. Who cares, man. And you know what, personally, I ain’t opposed to a finger up my ass every now and then.”

Mickey pulled a face, and snorted a laugh at Iggy, “Didn’t need to know that.”

Iggy gave one of his dopey grins and shrugged, “Just saying. You’re still my bro. My bromo —my _bromo_!”

Mickey rolled his eyes as he found the house key on his keychain let himself in —Iggy following behind. It was almost midnight, all the lights turned off. He rolled his eyes because he couldn't remember how many fucking times he’d told Svetlana to leave at least _one_ lamp on in the living room. He turned on the closest lamp to him, near a window.

He pocketed his keys, making his way up the stairs, making sure to keep his footfalls pretty light. No sense in possibly waking Yev up, the kid had school tomorrow and Mickey wasn’t shelling out a bunch of money for him to fuck up his grades because of loss of sleep.

The master bedroom door was propped open, so Mickey slipped in while Iggy waited on the other side, out in the hallway. It was dark but the street lamp outside shone a little light, letting Mickey see where he was going, even though he knew this room by heart.

He clenched his jaw tight, slowly walking up to the bed. Svetlana was curled up in the middle, surrounded by all those fucking pillows she insisted on buying and the too-fluffy duvet. 

All that fucked up anger comes rushing back, making Mickey shake and go hot all over. There, in the nightstand, there was a little safe with a gun inside. If he felt so inclined, he could end this shit now. It was the anger talking, so Mickey ignored it.

Instead, he cleared his throat, sitting on the edge of the bed. Svetlana stirred in her sleep, mumbling something. He cleared his throat again and waited, forcing himself to be patient. That time it worked, his wife’s eyes blinking open.

“Zhenya?” she mumbled.

Mickey reached over to the nightstand and flicked on the lamp there.

With a startled cry, Svetlana scrambled to sit up, eyes going wide as she spat an angry string of Russian out at Mickey. He didn’t know much about the harsh language, but he knew a couple basics: what, fuck, out.

“What’s wrong, you got a problem with someone fucking _ambushing_ you?”

Svetlana’s eyes were hard, “Get out of my house.”

Mickey smiled sharply at her, “You paying the bills now?”

“Fuck you,” she gritting through her teeth, sliding off of the bed. She reached for her red silk robe that she kept on the chair in the corner of the room, tying it around herself tightly. “I want you out of my house. You cannot sneak in in middle of night like this.”

“Sit down,” Mickey said, trying to keep his voice low.

Svetlana shook her head, “No. Get out of my house, you do not live here anymore.”

Mickey rubbed at his bottom lip and stood from the bed, “Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Svetlana gave him one last harsh glare, muttering something under her breath as she sat in the chair that her robe was on moments before. She folded her hands in her lap and kept her eyes on him as he stood in front of her.

“What made you think you could even _speak_ to him?” Mickey asked her. He could feel beads of angry sweat start to collect around his collar and his clenched fist shook. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I am mother who is not going to stand by and watch her child’s heart broken again and again anymore,” she spat at him.

Mickey scoffed, “He doesn’t even like me—”

“That is _bullshit_ and you know it!” Svetlana shot back at him, hands flying around as she yelled. “It is hard for you. I did not understand for long time, but then I did —I do now. I am patient now. I give you space, I take care of Yevgeny all on my own, I do not ask you for more than you give.”

“I’m not having this fucking conversation _again_ ,” Mickey pointed at her. “I’m talking about what you did _today_. I can’t even fucking process how you thought that was a good idea, to _threaten_ someone _I_ care about. Or did you forget who you were fucking married to?”

“You think I’m scared of you?” Svetlana stood from her chair, eyes blazing. “I do what I have to do, I do not care if you hate me or scream at me or hurt me—”

“I’ve _never_ put a fucking hand on you.”

“—but you will not break my sons heart again! I will do what I have to to make sure of that! I know that you have a hard time with loving him, but I don’t! And I will do what I have to!” 

Mickey got in her face, keeping her voice low, “I. Didn’t. Want. This. I didn’t want _any_ of it.”

Her mouth twisted in a snarl as she pushed his shoulders, pushing him away from her, “Fuck you! You were not the only one! You were not the only one scared with a gun to your fucking head! I did not ask for this, I did not want marriage, I did not want—” she cut herself off, slapping a hand over her mouth like she was trying to take back words she hadn't even spoken yet.

Mickey took a step back, watching as Svetlana wiped furiously at her crying eyes after unloading on him. His mind went completely blank, chest heaving with every breath. It was quiet for almost too long, both of them just watching each other with red eyes. “Svet…”

“He is good boy,” she shook her head, dismissing whatever he was about to say; her voice was hoarse, but soft. “He also had no choice. I take what you can give to our son, and I will do what I have to to make sure he keeps that. I do what I have to to make sure he does not get _less_ than what you give him now.”

Mickey exhaled, running a hand over his hair, “You can’t rope my fucking sister into your bullshit and gang up on someone I care about like that. You can’t do that. You can’t _threaten_ someone I care about, or tell them what to do.”

“I do what I have to.”

He shook his head, “There’s a fucking _line_. Yev’s got nothing to do with me and Ian, and Ian’s got _nothing_ to do with me and Yev. You got a problem with me, you come to _me_. You don’t ever pull that shit again. Me and you, we got our problems, but he’s not a part of any of that shit. You created this, I’m ending it, right now. Stay the _fuck_ away from him, do you understand?”

She sniffed at him, folding her arms under her chest, “I understand.”

“Good.”

“Do you love him?”

Mickey snorted an ugly laugh, “Ain’t your fucking business, is it?”

“Mom?”

Mickey whipped around at the sudden sleep-ridden raspy voice. His stomach dropped at the sight of his son, wondering what all he had heard. Yev’s hair was sticking up on one side, blue eyes narrowed as he looked peeked around the master bedroom door.

“Uh, sorry,” Iggy’s distracted voice piped up from behind the door. Good to know he was paying attention.

Svetlana muttered a string of Russian, running a hand through her hair, “Go back to bed, Zhenya. You have school tomorrow.”

But Yev was looking at Mickey, and Mickey was looking at Yev. “What’re you doing here?” he asked Mickey.

Mickey opened his mouth to answer, but Svetlana beat him to it, “Just something with the business, nothing to worry about.”

Obviously too tired to question it, Yev nodded, “M’kay.”

Mickey swallowed hard and rubbed at his bottom lip, “G’night kid.”

“G’night dad,” Yev yawned.

He really just wasn’t good at the dad thing -he probably didn't even deserve the title. He could do the paying for shit thing —clothes, food, medical bills, important shit like that. He could show up to a school meeting. But beyond that it was just… it wasn’t there. It felt like shit.

He couldn't bond with his son. And there was this constant _thing_ in the back of his head that made him _want_ to bond, that made him want to be _that dad_. Because at this point, Mickey felt like Terry without the abuse. And he hated it. It killed him. 

He thought Yev deserved better, but he just couldn't give him that, not now. Maybe it was too late. Twelve years, you’d think he’d get over what happened. It got better within those twelve years, so much fucking better. But it didn't go away. He just looked at this twelve year old kid, this perfect mix of him and Svetlana, and all he could think was _I didn't want you_. 

God, he felt like shit about it. If only he could bond, if only he could get over the fact that this life was forced on him, then maybe one day (if it wasn't too late) he could be _that dad_. Maybe.

“Oh, dad?” Yev’s hesitated in the doorway, fingers curled over the doorknob. “I… I know you’re really busy with work a lot so it’s okay if you can’t uhm… I just… I built this thing for the science fair. It’s dumb though, actually, so if you can’t it’s fine…”

Mickey glanced over at Svetlana, but she had her hands out in that way that said she had nothing to do with him asking.  He rubbed again at his bottom lip and sighed, feeling the tension radiate through him, through the whole bedroom. Yev deserved better. But the thought of giving Svetlana what she fucking wanted was enough to make him want to put his fist through the wall.

“I’ll see if I can move some shit around,” Mickey told Yev.

That got a small lopsided smile from the boy as he nodded, “Okay. Thanks, dad.”

Mickey nodded back to him, gesturing for him to go, “You got school tomorrow, get your ass in bed.”

And then Yev left, and Mickey was left standing there with Svetlana.

“And you think he does not like you?” Svetlana kept her voice low. “He knows how you look at him. He feels what you feel, since baby he feels that.”

“You’re not gonna stand there and fucking guilt me.”

Svetlana shook her head, “I am not trying to guilt you, I am trying to tell you the truth.”

Mickey frowned at her hard, not wanting to talk about that anymore. “Me _maybe_ going to that science shit changes nothing. I’m not doing shit for you, you didn’t win anything. This is my fucking choice, if I go or not.”

She nodded. And then Mickey couldn't be there anymore, so he left with his older brother trailing behind, locking the house up on his way out. He’d just slept for hours with Ian, but fuck if he wasn’t ready to go back to sleep. This whole day had just straight out of a daytime drama fucking nightmare and he was ready for it to be over.

 

* * *

 

He was starving. The one Chinese place that was open really late was a good ten minutes in the opposite direction of Ian’s place, but Mickey went anyway. He ended up just ordering a shit-ton of food, because Ian liked leftovers.

So when he got back to Ian’s, they laid all the food out on his little coffee table (like they usually did) and curled up on the couch, turning on the worst infomercial they could find. It was so late and they ate so much, ending up spread out on the small couch, twisted up in one another.

Mickey was pushed up against the back of the couch, on his side, one of Ian’s legs pressed between his own. It was gross, like straight out of one of those fucking sappy chick movie kind of gross. Just looking at each other, kissing each other softly, holding each other, infomercial playing softly in the background, completely forgotten. But it was okay, because this was Ian, and Mickey loved touching Ian and kissing Ian and making Ian sigh softly into his mouth. Ian took care of Mickey like that. Let him just _be_ , like that.

“I feel like there’s something else I should do,” Mickey whispered, pressing his forehead against Ian’s. “Tell me how to make it better.”

Ian kissed him, licking into his mouth and Mickey let him in, loved that Ian taste, the way he was trapped between Ian and the couch, but Ian still tried to get closer, still tried to feel more of him. Mickey loved the way Ian kissed him soft like this. And slow. Everything before Ian had been hard and fast and rough —and even though they still had that hard and fast and rough— it was just nice to slow down and enjoy, to appreciate.

“You being here makes it better,” Ian panted into his mouth. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore, okay? I don’t wanna talk about it, I want _this_.”

Mickey moaned softly when Ian grabbed his thigh and pulled his leg up higher on his hip, rocking into him. He went with the motion, carefully maneuvering them on the couch so he was now above Ian, legs threaded together, pushing against each other as they kissed.

He moved his mouth down to Ian’s neck, kissing and tonguing at his skin. Ian let out a broken groan and grabbed at Mickey’s ass. It sent a shiver up his spine as he let Ian take over the movement of his hips, rocking together, not even a breath of air between them.

Mickey took Ian’s hands off of his ass and pushed them into the couch above his head, holding him down with one hand, his other wedging between them tostroke Ian through his sweatpants. He was getting so worked up that he was shaking, grunting against Ian’s neck, holding him tightly to the couch.

And Ian was so fucking perfect under him, arching and breathing hard. “Fucking tough guy, huh?” Ian laughed.

Mickey bit at his neck, feeling his boyfriend starting to break out of his hold he had on his wrists. Between the two of them today, everything had been out of their control. Which fucking sucked and there had been _nothing_ good about what happened. 

The after-effects though… 

Ian yanked his wrists out of Mickey’s hold and quickly turned. Mickey landed on the floor with a huff, a thrill shooting up his spine when Ian fell on top of him and grabbed his arms, pinning them above his head.

Mickey snarled and snapped his teeth at Ian, getting a laugh out of the redhead as he rolled his hips and pushed his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, biting and sucking at his skin there. It was so good; Mickey lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, being trapped like that, bitten and pushed against.

“We don’t have the stuff,” Mickey moaned, his back arching on it’s own.

Ian grunted, pulling back and letting him go, so Mickey took the opportunity to bring his knees up and push Ian off of him, sending him falling backwards while he got up and scrambled towards the bedroom door.

“Fucker!” Ian laughed.

Mickey laughed loudly with Ian, making it to the bedroom door only to be pulled back and pushed up against the wall by the door. Ian held his face and kissed him hard, pushing him into the wall with his hips. Mickey bit at his lips, matching whatever Ian gave him, his hands reaching behind Ian to grab his ass.

They were playing. Like a couple of rough teenage boys, they played and pushed and grabbed at each other, pinning each other to walls and Ian’s dresser and the bed. 

Ian snarled this triumphant sounding laugh when he twisted Mickey around on the bed. He pushed him facedown onto he mattress and sat directly on his ass, holding his hands behind his back. Mickey made a strangled sounding yell, and fought against the hold, but he smiled.

“Give up?” Ian panted heavily. 

He relaxed, nodding his head, “I guess you’re just _too_ _strong_ for me.”

“Damn right I —fuck!” Ian yelled, toppling over when Mickey caught him off guard. 

He twisted and pulled away from Ian so he could turn and push him down on the bed, using his hands and legs to hold down Ian’s arms and legs. He laughed, hovering his lips right above Ian’s, their labored breaths colliding between them. Ian rocked his hips up, chasing friction, but Mickey just held him down tighter.

He ghosted his lips over Ian’s, pulling a frustrated moan from the redhead, “God, I can’t wait till I can beat your ass.”

Ian smiled and groaned, trying to surge forward and kiss him, but Mickey still held him down. “You wanna beat my ass, Mick?”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Mickey felt a fire catch in his belly. He couldn't fucking _wait_ until he could mark Ian up, having him walking around with a sore ass and bruises. Fuck, the thought of his mark on Ian like that. He groaned, finally leaning down to kiss his boyfriend hard.

“Tell me,” Ian panted, back arching so he could press his chest against Mickey.

Mickey smirked down at him and sat up so he could flip Ian on his stomach, tugging at the band of his sweatpants so he could get a good look. Have gave the redhead’s ass a little tap on both cheek and rubbed gently at the soft skin. Ian made something between a laugh and a moan,hips pushing down into the mattress.

He was trembling and humming all over; Mickey laid over Ian’s back, pressing his mouth to his ear, pushing his very evident erection down against Ian’s ass, “Tell you what?” he asked, even though he already knew.

“Tell me what you’re gonna do to me,” Ian shuddered.

“Now?” Mickey grinned through his question.

“No,” Ian whined, pushing up and back against Mickey, making both of them gasp. “Not now —then, later, you know…”

Mickey grazed his teeth against Ian’s ear, rolling his hips down against him again, feeling nothing less than _primal;_ there was nothing but a thin scrap of cotton separating Mickey’s cock from Ian’s ass as he rocked against him. 

He liked being manhandled and told what to do, but there were these _times_ … these times where he was just… he was the _boss_. And he was so into it and Ian was so into it. It went straight to his dick, _he was the fucking_ _boss_. 

As far as Mickey was concerned, if you haven’t had a beautiful redhead (more specifically, Ian _fucking_ Gallagher), kneeling in front of you with a messy open mouth, blown-out pupils, silently waiting for more, then you haven’t fucking lived.

“Gonna fuck that pretty fucking mouth; go old-school on your narrow ass and bend you over my lap,” he said. “So I can hold you in place and make that ass as red as your fucking hair.”

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian reached back and grabbed Mickey’s hip, trying to pull him harder against him.

“Would you be good for me?” Mickey asked Ian. “Take what I give you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian chanted through his heavy breaths. His hand slipped between his body and the mattress, but Mickey grabbed his arm and yanked it out from under him. “Fuck, come on baby, _please_. M’so fucking hard.”

He reached for Ian’s mouth, sinking two fingers past his lips. Ian was greedy, sucking on his fingers, moving between the mattress and Mickey. Ian was hot inside his mouth; the side of his face pressed against the bed, sweaty and breathing hard through his nose. 

Mickey grinned, everything bad that happened that day completely falling away. It was just him and Ian and nothing else fucking mattered. Ian whined when Mickey slid his fingers out of his mouth, his hands twisting in the sheets of his bed.

“Then after your ass is red and hot,” Mickey murmured hotly against Ian’s ear, hand reaching down, reaching between them. “And you’re shaking and begging for it…”

He moved off of Ian just enough so Ian could take the hint to spread one of his legs out, knee bending. It truly fucking amazed Mickey how Ian could be so fucking receptive to his touches —because when he reached down and pressed his wet fingers against Ian’s tight ring of muscles, the redhead fucking keened, hips bucking.

“M’gonna fuck you _so_ good, baby,” he continued, fingers sliding and pressing against Ian’s hole. “You want that? Beat your ass and fuck you real good?”

“Yes — _yes_ ,” Ian nodded almost violently, his hand darting out towards the nightstand, fingers barely scraping the edge of it. He grunted in frustration, fingers pulling under to make a fist when Mickey breathed a soft laugh.

And then Mickey was the one caught off guard. The redhead was quick in his movements, reaching back to catch Mickey around the middle and tackle him to the bed. Mickey grunted, grinning as Ian pinned him and kissed him, licking greedily into his mouth while he clawed at Mickey’s boxers.

It all went by in this rough, moaning haze. Ian grabbing the lube and condom from the nightstand, getting Mickey ready while they kissed hard. Mickey tried to switch their positions so he could ride his boyfriend, but Ian hooked his arms under Mickey’s knees, hitching his legs up, planting his hands down into the mattress.

“Ah fuck,” Mickey groaned, spread open for Ian with nowhere to go. He closed his eyes tightly when Ian pressed into him, that full, stretched feeling that came with his boyfriend cock never disappointing.

Mickey loved Ian’s cock. If he were the kind of guy to write fucking sonnets about cock, he’d write fucking sonnets about that cock. It was perfect —felt perfect, tasted perfect, and the sound Ian made when he bottomed-out inside of Mickey was addicting.

Ian fucked him hard, holding his legs up, snapping his hips. Every thrust reverberated through Mickey’s body as he laid there and took everything he was given. And Ian gave it good, wether it was slow and hot, or hard like this, he just _knew_ Mickey.

They grunted words that Mickey only let himself say to Ian, let his walls crumble so he could tell Ian how good he felt inside of him, how good he looked, and _mine, fucking mine_. He urged him on, because evidently Mickey’s mouth thought he was a damn pornstar or something tonight, but it seemed to do the trick because Ian grunted those words back to him in return.

The bleeding, warm urgency washed over Mickey. Ian must have noticed this because he dropped Mickey’s legs and settled more fully on top of him, his hips rolling deep as he pressed his mouth against Mickey’s. Ian kissed him slow, moaning into his mouth, every other thrust sending a jolt deep within Mickey because he hit that fucking spot.

Both of them were trying to catch their breaths and kiss at the same time. Mickey felt light-headed, fingers sinking into Ian’s hair, biting at the redhead’s lips. He felt so full, so incredibly full —and warm, and _loved_. It was so much. It was everything.

“Ian,” Mickey panted against Ian’s mouth, feeling like he was going to fucking die, right at the edge of that cliff, so fucking close. He never wanted to let go of this. Of Ian. Of anything. Just this. Just him. Only him. Just him, just him, just _him_.

“Ian, fuck I —I,” he stammered, throat closing up. There was this bubble in his chest and he was about five fucking seconds away from coming, but there were things he needed to _say,_ things Ian needed to know. Was this okay? Right now, was this okay if he… “Ian, I… _fuck_ —Ian, I… I—”

“I know, baby,” Ian pressed his forehead against Mickey’s, punching out every breath. “I — _fuck_ — s’okay, I know.”

Mickey clenched his eyes tight, hands plunging into Ian’s hair; he was tight all over and static and everything went a little blurry.

“Open your eyes,” Ian’s hips stuttered, one of his arms wrapping under Mickey, holding him tight. “Open… fuck, Mick, open…”

So he did, staring right back into Ian’s green eyes, taking a deep breath and finally ripping himself open, and like a fucking tidal wave, it _desperately_ poured out of him, “I love you —I… I love you. Fuck, I love you.”

It was a combination of relief and pleasure that took over Ian’s face. Smiling open mouth, heavy breath, he nodded over and over again, “I love you too.”

Mickey came hard. Just fucking _hard_ and sudden and loud, arching and shaking. So hard that he lost his breath and felt his eyes sting, fingers biting into Ian’s shoulders. He felt Ian push into him a few more times before he held deep inside his sensitive body and followed, his arm still holding onto him tight, mouth still pressed into the crook of his neck, breathing hard against him. 

They stayed like that for a little while, tangled up, trying to catch their breath. Ian slowly pulled out of Mickey, but kept holding him close, not making any movement to let him go anytime soon. Mickey was miles away but so very present at the same time. His hands made their way to Ian’s hair —it was damp with sweat and hot. He brushed his fingers through it and sighed softly.

“C’mere,” Mickey barely got out.

Ian slowly moved, pulling back a little to look at Mickey. His face was flushed, but relaxed. He wet his lips, just staring down at him, probably holding his breath. 

It was a silent conversation; Mickey nodded _yes I love you, it wasn't just getting caught up in the moment, yes I love you_. Ian’s mouth pulled upwards at the corners and he nodded back _good, because I love you too_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm like 95% sure that Zhenya is a pet-name for Yevgeny. If anyone was confused by that. If it's not, I apologize, I trusted the internet lol
> 
> Thank you, again, for all the love & comments. I know Svet and Mandy did something really fucked up and there was a lot of anger about that. I totally get it. Hopefully I made it somewhat better? 
> 
> Like I said up top, the next chapter will also be in Mickey's pov.


	12. Tornado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hate this,” Mandy blurted. “I want to make this right —I’m sorry I hurt you.”

After thinking it over for a couple days, Mickey decided to bite the bullet and go to the fucking science fair. Ian’s work appointment didn’t end up getting switched to Friday, but his sister had asked him to come to a family dinner. 

So with most of his night freed up and not wanting to sit at home and think, Mickey gave into his curiosity. He’d never been in or to a science fair and didn’t know how any of that shit worked. Plus Yev said he built something, so… yeah okay, he wanted to see it.

Mickey wasn’t doing this for Svetlana, or Mandy, or even Yev. Well, partly for Yev, _obviously_ , it involved Yev. But Mickey was doing it for himself first. He honestly wanted to be better. He wanted to at least fucking _try_. It wasn’t about giving Svetlana what she wanted.

 

* * *

 

There was probably something to be said about being Yevgeny Milkovich —the kid had a fucking _memorable_ family. Seven adults showed up for Yev’s science fair. He was the only kid amongst the Milkovich siblings (that anyone knew about), so needless to say, he got his fill of attention. Iggy brought his girlfriend Asha and Mandy brought along her guy Preston —it was definitely Preston, even though he looked more like a Peter in Mickey’s opinion.

Mickey didn’t go out to dinner with everyone, he just met them at the school. He didn’t want to sit there and pretend everything was okay. Because it still _wasn’t_ okay. He was still pissed, even though Ian said it was fine. It _wasn’t_ fine. Mickey wondered if it would ever be fine again.

Yeah okay, Svetlana’s threat to Ian had been an empty one. She didn’t have the kind of power to make him disappear. But she still said it. It was just so fucked up, and it would have easier if Yev wasn’t in the picture. It would have been easy to just cut her off for good. 

But Mickey wanted to give Yev what he deserved. As much as he really did _not_ like his sister right now, she had a point. He couldn't punish Yev because his mother was a fucking bitch. The kid didn’t do anything wrong. Mickey wished it wasn’t so damn complicated.

Yev went to a nice school, so of course the science fair was kind of nice, well, you had to dress decent —it was kind of a PTA shit-show, rich parents in more competition than the children. Mickey hated all this shit, but the school was really good and he was kind of fucking determined that Yev was going to be the first Milkovich to go all the way to college. Go legit.

So anyway, in a dress shirt and slacks, Mickey stood with the rest of the small hoard of Milkoviches outside the auditorium because Yev wanted a little time to make sure everything was ready at his station before his family came in. 

He pulled on his cigarette and half-listened to Preston rattling off some bullshit about his dads fortune-five-hundred company —Mandy, Svetlana and Asha were talking about _whatever_ , probably Yev. Mickey almost felt like he was in high school again, having parents walk by and give him a displeased, pointed look at the fact that he and his siblings were smoking on school grounds.

Svetlana gave him his space, knowing exactly where she stood with him right now, thank fucking god, Mickey wasn’t really sure how he’d deal with her riling up again and acting like a bitch tonight. He wasn’t looking to make a scene in front of Yev’s school, in front of all these rich assholes that would love noting more than to put their nose directly into other people’s business.

Mandy barely looked at him, in that kicked-puppy way. Mickey wasn’t sure if anyone noticed this, but honestly couldn’t have cared less. Let her tuck tail, that was fine. It had been a few days since the incident, but Mickey needed a few more to cool off. He wasn’t like Ian, he wasn’t _okay_ and _understanding_ like that —God bless that man.

Mickey pulled his phone out and texted Ian, _How’s the family dinner going?_

“Okay,” Yev’s voice piped up from the auditorium doors. “S’all set up.”

Iggy flicked his cigarette to the ground, “A’ight, let’s see what you got, nerd.”

Yev rolled his eyes at his uncle, but grinned, dimples cutting into his cheeks, “Ay, screw you.”

“ _Yevgeny_ ,” Svetlana reached out and tapped the back of her hand on the kid’s shoulder. She said something else in Russian that made Yev sigh and mutter an apology. Mickey rolled his eyes and shook his head, not understanding what the big fucking deal was, but he let it go.

_Good but my little sister brought her new boyfriend and he’s kind of a tool. You doing okay?_ Ian texted him back.

Mickey smirked down at his phone, not listening to whatever it was that his brothers were saying, _I’m good. We’re going in now. Meet you back at my place?_

_Yeah, love you x_ , Ian sent back.

Mickey got a little flip in his stomach because Ian loved him and he loved Ian, and it was real, _Love you._

The auditorium was pretty busy with activity. Long tables were set up, creating four long aisles of those clunky three-panel cardboard poster things —bright colors, printed out explanations of experiments… Mickey saw one little girl with a bunch of test-tubes in front of her display.

Mickey and the rest of the group followed Yev down an aisle, nodding to a couple teachers that he recognized. It was always kind of funny when all the Milkoviches came to Yev’s school. Between Mickey and Iggy’s knuckle tattoos, and just everyone’s fucking _look_ , compared to all of these North Siders… it was just very fucking funny to see rich women try to subtly lean away and curl their hands over their purses. _Very_ fucking funny.

Plus, if Svetlana didn’t look like a goddamn mob-wife, with her expensive (faux) fur shaw and clicking heels, Mickey didn’t really know who did. She really was ridiculous sometimes.

Yev stopped in front of his display. The three-panel poster was black with white lettering saying “Tornado Simulator”. There were pictures of tornadoes and drawings and charts, and it looked like Yev put a lot of work into his project —it looked good. On a little table in front of his display there was a kind of big rectangular box with plexiglass sides.

“Oh, so _this_ is what you needed that stuff for,” Iggy said, motioning to the box.

Yev nodded, “Yep.”

Mickey looked over at his brother and arched a brow, “What?”

“Took a Home Depot trip a couple weeks ago, but he wouldn’t tell me what all the shit was for,” Iggy shrugged.

Sometimes he’d see Yev and Iggy talking, laughing together —Iggy teaching him something— and there would be this tightness in Mickey’s chest. And he’d get upset or jealous, something that was buried so fucking deep but flared up and made him want to remind his brother that Yev was _his_ son, and if anyone was going to be taking him to Home fucking Depot for science fair supplies, it should have been _him_. 

But he never did. He didn’t do that shit. Didn’t teach Yev shit, didn’t take him places because he was too busy with work, always too fucking busy with work… even when there was no work, he was still too busy with work. 

And so it was _Iggy_ who taught Yev how to pick a padlock (Svetlana was not pleased by this). And it was _Iggy_ who taught him how to throw a punch (again, Svetlana was not pleased by this), remembering to _not_ tuck his thumb in. Iggy played video games with Yev and took him to midnight showings of superhero movies, loading up on popcorn and candy. 

Who fucking knew. Iggy Milkovich was a better uncle than Mickey was a dad. _Iggy_.

Maybe Mickey should have been a little grateful for his dopey older brother, giving Yev some kind of support that wasn’t from Svetlana. Mickey couldn’t really see the good in that whole ‘every boy needs a father’ theory —look at what Terry did to his boys. But Yev had uncles, one of which actually stepped up to the plate that Mickey left behind. It was kind of a nasty pill to swallow.

“Zhenya, do your uh…” Svetlana looked over at Mickey, moving her hand as she looked for the word, “Pres…”

“Presentation,” Mickey supplied with a sigh, not looking at her.

Yev glanced at Mickey before he nodded and took a couple index cards out of his pocket. Mickey folded his arms under his chest and stood with the rest of the adults, creating a kind of half-circle around Yev’s display. The kid took a deep breath, looking at Mickey again, and finally began.

And you know what? He did fucking good. And Mickey, despite not really giving too many shits about generating a tornado and all that, actually fucking listened. Yev was talking about low-pressure systems and temperatures, and other shit that Mickey didn’t really care about, but he knew that the kid was _on it_. The kid was so on it.

Then as Yev was setting up his demonstration, Mickey took his phone out and snapped a couple of pictures. It felt like something he should do, and Yev worked really fucking hard. 

Mickey felt this warmth in his chest when Yev put the dry ice in a tin bowl, poured warm water in after -vapor billowing up and spilling over the sides of the bowl, then put the tin in the box. Then he turned this little box fan on at the top of the box he’d made, and the dry ice vapor shot upwards, swirling around. He made a fucking tornado. In a box. His kid.

 

* * *

 

It was weird, standing a few feet away from his son, trying to put together a couple words to say. Yev and Svetlana were talking with a teacher; Svetlana absentmindedly ran a hand over his dark hair, and Mickey couldn't help but think that she maybe babied him too much. Maybe he was wrong though, Mickey didn’t fucking know. He didn’t exactly have a good frame of reference for that kind of shit.

“He’s doing real good in school —A’s and B’s.”

Mickey bit the inside of his cheek, glancing over at his sister. She was less kicked-puppy, now more of herself, like she finally put her Mandy Milkovich mask on. But Mickey could see through it, she was still weighted by guilt, but was also trying to get things back on track.

“Should be proud of him,” she continued. “Probably gonna be the first Milkovich to go to college, you know?”

Mickey looked away from her, taking a couple deep breaths. He _was_ fucking proud of him, and Yev _was_ going to go to college. He was going to actually do something with his life that didn’t revolve around the mess that Terry raised Mickey and his siblings in. 

Maybe they had a choice to get out of it fully, but sometimes it just felt like they were so fucking deep in it, this was it. Mickey didn’t really know a life outside of it. The crime, the violence… the _money_ that came with it.

Mandy breathed deep beside him, keeping her voice barely above a whisper, “I know you’re still pissed and I understand. I fucked up, okay. I fucked up really bad. Tell me what you want me to do. I want to make this right.”

Mickey sniffed, checking his watch for no reason, going numb. “Call Wolanski in the morning. Make sure he’s happy with Jones.” He didn’t stick around for his sister’s protest. He just didn’t want to fucking hear it —any of it. 

Yev’s teacher stepped away right on time. Mickey walked away from his sister and made his way over to Yev, giving Svetlana a look to tell her to back off for a minute. Thankfully, she didn’t say anything, just squeezed Yev’s shoulder and went to go talk to Mandy and Asha.

His whole body went hot and Mickey, like always, got so frustrated with himself because this was his fucking kid and he didn’t know what to say to him. Yev was looking up at him, his eyebrows arched up and Mickey almost wanted to laugh because those were _his_ eyebrows, that _the fuck you want_ arch. That was him.

“Did good,” Mickey nodded towards Yev’s project display.

Yev gave a small half-smile, “Thanks.”

“You uh…” Mickey ran a hand over his hair, pushing through the urge to just walk away because he was so fucking awkward and tragic, it wasn’t even remotely okay. “You built that thing all by yourself?”

The kid nodded —and that was it— still looking up at him.

Mickey nodded back, rubbing at his bottom lip, “S’cool as shit, man.”

When Yev broke out in a wide grin, Mickey felt his whole body relax. He took a deep breath and grinned back at his son.

 

* * *

 

“Mickey, wait!”

He sighed, gripping his car door’s handle. Mandy’s heels clicked on the pavement as she ran up behind him. He faced her; she held her nice jacket close to herself, looking like she walked straight out of one of those noir films, pained expression on her face and all.

“What?” he asked.

“I hate this,” Mandy blurted. “I want to make this right —I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Mickey sighed heavily, not really wanting to do this right now. But he leaned back against the side of his car and folded his arms over his chest; he shrugged, “Why’d you pull that shit?”

She blinked a couple times, shaking her head, “I… I don’t know.”

“Great answer,” Mickey barked a humorless laugh. “You know, you’ve been having these fucking _moments_ ever since Peter—”

“Preston.”

“— _Preston_ popped up. And it’s not good, Mands. I don’t even know who you fucking are sometimes. You woulda never pulled that shit before.”

Mandy frowned, “It’s got nothing to do with Preston.”

“Then I would _love_ if you would explain what the fuck is going on with you,” Mickey shot back. “Why all of a sudden you pull shit like you did the other day. Or the other week when you made a complete fucking _ass_ of yourself at that Italian place, talking to Iggy like he was a piece of dog shit. Tony and Joey won’t even fucking talk to you anymore —I dunno what the fuck happened there…”

Mandy shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, head dipping, “I’m sorry.”

Where Mickey was parked in the school parking lot, there weren’t many people around, so he didn't have a problem with letting out a loud, frustrated noise. “Stop fucking saying sorry and tell me what the fuck is going on with you! What are you trying to accomplish here?”

“I don’t know!” Mandy said loudly, eyes glassy.

“You having problems with something —you on something?” Mickey asked, shrugging, honestly grasping at straws. “Preston putting his hands on you? You fucking depressed or… or, what? What? What is it, Mandy?”

“Preston is good to me, he doesn’t put his hands on me,” Mandy defended.

Mickey scoffed, opening his car door, “Well, he’s doing something. You keep pushing, and pushing. Push hard enough, you’re gonna be left all by your fucking self.” He got into his car and gave his sister one last look, “Figure it out, or else I’ll take a page out of your book and go knocking on Preston’s door. You don’t want that.”

That shut her up tight; all she did was nod. Mickey’s gut told him that Preston had something to do with all this shit. He was going to find out what the fuck was happening, one way or another.

 

* * *

 

Mickey locked his apartment door behind him, grinning when he saw Ian’s shoes next to the door. He tossed his keys onto the little table in the hallway and padded into the kitchen to grab a beer. 

During the drive from Yev’s school to his apartment, he managed to shake off the tension that came with talking to Mandy last, deciding to focus on _better_ things. There was this lightness in his chest that he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt before. Something like elation or… just good. He just felt pretty fucking good.

He couldn’t remember the last time he made Yev smile like that. And that was cool. That was really fucking cool. Sure, the science fair had been kind of boring and seeing a couple little asshole kids with their complicated experiments was so far out of Mickey’s realm of patience that all he could think about was leaving… but still, seeing Yev proud of himself like that. It was fucking cool. 

“Ian!” Mickey called, tossing the the cap to his beer bottle into the trash.

“Bedroom!” Ian’s voice called back.

When Mickey gets to the bedroom, he leans against the doorframe, just looking at his boyfriend for a second. Ian’s all propped up in bed in his sweatpants, on his laptop, clicking away at something. He was already feeling that lightness in his chest, but now Mickey felt like he was about to burst from it. He could get used to this, coming home to Ian.

Ian gave him an odd look, “What?”

Mickey shrugged, taking another drink from his beer as he pushed off of the doorframe, “What’re you working on?”

“I _was_ … seeing if I can get my high school transcripts emailed to me,” Ian murmured, closing his laptop and setting it on the nightstand. “Did all I can do for now. I just wanted to get all my shit together while I’m thinking about it, instead of scrambling at the last minute.”

“Mm,” Mickey hummed, setting his beer on Ian’s nightstand. He toed his shoes off while he unbuttoned and untucked his dress shirt, tossing it into the clothes hamper that hadn’t been there before Ian started staying at his place more often.

Mickey gave Ian a slow grin, climbing up and straddling the redhead’s lap, “College boy in my bed, pretty sexy.”

“Not yet,” Ian breathed a laugh against Mickey’s mouth, wrapping his arms around him to draw him closer; he slipped his hands under Mickey’s undershirt and splayed his fingers across his skin; it felt so good. “How was everything tonight?”

Mickey deflated a little, giving Ian a look even though he was still grinning, “You gonna bring that shit up when I’m trying to smooth-talk my way into your pants?”

Ian snorted, “That’s you smooth-talking?”

“Ay, I was just getting started,” Mickey defended, threading his fingers through the back of Ian’s hair, scrubbing at his scalp. He paused, leaning forward to press his lips against Ian’s before climbing off of his lap and settling down right next to him. He fished his phone out of his pocket, “Actually, you gotta see this.”

“See what?” Ian asked, lifting his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, relaxing against the pillows with him.

“Check it out,” Mickey went through his phone and showed Ian the pictures of Yev with his display. “Kid made a fucking tornado… in a _box_.”

Ian breathed a laugh, leaning against Mickey so he could see, “No shit?”

“Man, it was, I dunno… it was cool. He built this thing, look,” Mickey felt weird saying the words, and had a little trouble doing so, but he just really wanted to show Ian what his kid made —built with his own fucking hands, no help. He knew he was getting caught up in the moment, he knew he was acting dumb as shit, but he couldn’t fucking help it. He’d never done something like that when he was Yev’s age. 

Mickey caught himself, lips tucking between his teeth. Maybe Ian didn’t want to see this shit, after everything. Maybe it was kind of fucked up that he was showing pictures of Yev at the science fair. He looked over at Ian and sighed, “Sorry.”

Ian frowned, “What’re you sorry for?”

Mickey shrugged, hands gripping onto his phone while dropped them into his lap, “After all that shit with Svet… I dunno.”

“Mick,” Ian snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize for being proud of your son. You’re allowed to be proud of your son, and brag about him, all that shit. It’s okay.”

Mickey gave Ian a half smile, warmth flooding his belly because how the fuck did he get so lucky as to fall for a guy like Ian. “I just don’t want you to, you know, feel weird about it.”

Ian shook his head, “I don’t feel weird about Yev, he’s just a kid, he didn’t do a anything. He’s _your_ kid so I like hearing about all that. And… I dunno, I kinda like seeing you like this… it’s nice.”

“Yeah?” Mickey grinned.

Ian nodded, turning his body a little towards Mickey, “I mean, if you want me to be _honest_ … it’s kind of sexy.”

Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up as he scrunched his face up at Ian, “What?”

Ian rolled his eyes, taking Mickey’s phone out of his hand and setting it on top of his laptop, on the nightstand. Mickey felt his stomach flip over when Ian was hovering in front of him, gripping his hips, pulling him to lay on his back. Ian looked down at him and Mickey thought he lost his breath for a second.

“When you’re proud of something,” Ian murmured, leaning back to work Mickey’s belt and pants open. “You get this… I don’t even know how to explain it. This _look_.”

“A look?” Mickey breathed a laugh, lifting his hips so Ian could pull his pants off. 

He closed his eyes and sighed when his boyfriend ran his hands up his thighs, gently squeezing at the muscle. The touches sent a thrill up Mickey’s body; setting his legs on either side of Ian; the redhead is running his hands up the insides of his thighs. Mickey bit back a moan, his head pressing back into the pillow.

“Mmhm,” Ian hums, his hands sliding over Mickey’s skin, over his boxers, palming his swelling erection. “I like it. Like it when you look at me like that too… feels good.”

Mickey breathes heavy, hands clenching into fists as Ian hand idly strokes him over his boxers, the fingers of his other hand feather across the skin of his inner thighs. Mickey’s all tingly and floaty, his body hardening up even more. His hips try to buck up into the touch, try to chase more, harder friction, but it’s hard to concentrate on much else but breathing.

He lets Ian move his legs a little, feels his hand press a little harder against him, still over the boxers, stroking him fluidly while he watches his face. Mickey holds back a moan, his own hands reaching up to scrub at his face, trying to center himself and get back on the fucking ground. But then Ian slides his hand down, massaging and cupping his balls through his boxers, then pressing against his perineum, and Mickey can’t hold the moan back anymore.

With a harsh exhale, Mickey sat up and grabbed Ian around the back of the neck, “C'mere.”

Ian sighed into their kiss, caging Mickey in, and it was so good. Mickey basked in it. Feeling Ian’s hands trail up and down his sides, feeling the redhead’s hair under his own fingers, the skin of his freckled shoulders and back. They just kissed, and touched, and loved each other. Everything else melted away —nothing else mattered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The science fair bit would have been a little longer, but much like Mickey, I am clueless in how those things actually go. It's been a long time, guys. Long. Time.
> 
> Thank you for all the comments/kudos/general love for this, I appreciate it so much :) love you guys & I love reading your thoughts on whats going on and opinions on stuff. 
> 
> Honestly, I hadn't meant to vilify Svet and Mandy as much as I did, I actually love them a lot. It was not the original plan I had in my head, but I let the story go where it wanted, and hopefully I'm doing an okay job trying to clean it up. There was a lot of anger and it was justified, because that was fuuuucked up. idk, I like to think I write for myself, but I can't help but hope that I didn't fuck up my story for a lot of you. Hopefully I didn't. **Excuse my whining, it's been a hell of a week lmao


	13. Future?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know you’re laughing at me,” Mickey nudges his foot under the table. “Dick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> light and fluffy. like cool whip.

The restaurant was really nice. Low lighting, fancy plates, menus that weren’t laminated —soft music in the background, under the murmuring conversation and clinking of glasses. Ian chewed on his bottom lip, looking around, trying not to squirm too much in his chair because the only thing he really wanted to do was lean across the table and put his mouth on Mickey’s.

But he couldn’t. Not now. Mickey was looking at him with this little shine in his eyes, but kept his face passive. Because they weren’t boyfriends right now, they were old friends, and even though Mickey was taking him out and this was technically a date, they had to play it like this. Friendly. Friends. _Bros_.

They don’t go out like this a lot, obviously. But Ian, right now, will take what he can fucking get. They’re supposed to be _bros_ right now, but all Ian can really focus on is that he’s on a date with Mickey and it’s kind of perfect, even though it isn’t. He loves Mickey. He really _really_ fucking loves Mickey Milkovich.

“You okay?” Mickey breathes a soft laugh, eyebrows raised.

Ian nods, he grins, he tries to keep his eyes friendly, but he knows they’re going soft, knows he’s looking at his boyfriend like he’s the only fucking person on the planet. He kind of is. God, he’s beautiful. And his. All his. No one else’s, not even his wife's. Just Ian’s.

“Decide on what you want to eat?”

Ian looks down at his menu. The font is fancy, wording is flowery. A low chuckle escapes his lips because this is romantic as _shit_ , and it was all Mickey’s idea. 

“I know you’re laughing at me,” Mickey nudges his foot under the table. “Dick.”

Ian runs a hand over his hair and looks back up at Mickey; he can’t stop smiling, “I just uh… love this restaurant.”

“Yeah?” Mickey leans back in his chair. “You love this restaurant?”

“A lot,” Ian nodded, gaining more control of his smile. 

They’re not doing a great job of bro-ing this up right now. But Ian doesn’t give a shit. Mickey doesn’t seem like he gives a shit either. He rubs at his bottom lip and nods.

“I love this restaurant too.”

After the week that Ian and Mickey had, they kind of deserved this. And Ian was going to let Mickey do this —take him out, pay for the whole meal. Because Mickey needed to do this right now. And whatever made him feel better, Ian was going to give him. Plus hello, again, it was romantic as _shit_.

The waitress finally made her way over to the table, took their orders, then went away again (Mickey got a steak —rare— and Ian got chicken, making a joke about cooking it well done, which Mickey rolled his eyes at). In a restaurant that was decently full, Ian couldn’t help but feel like it was just him and Mickey. 

Wow, he was really getting caught up in all of this, wasn’t he? And he wanted to kiss his boyfriend so bad. Mickey kept wetting his lips and looking at him and Ian just… he had to calm himself before shit got really embarrassing for him.

“Did you narrow down the college thing?” Mickey asked him.

It had been a little bit of a struggle for Ian. He knew he wanted to go to college, get a proper education and all that, but for a long time he just didn’t know what he wanted to do. He’d thought about Education. Then Journalism. The latest was Marketing. 

Sometimes it got really overwhelming. Even in high school, he had a hard time figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. He thought maybe it would be clearer when he got older. He’d been wrong. Very fucking wrong.

Ian shrugged, “I dunno, I keep going back and forth between shit. Maybe I should just go for a Business degree or something.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Mickey gave a helpless shrug. “Wish I could help you out more, man. I don’t know shit about any of that.”

He grinned, “S’alright. I got time.”

Mickey pressed his lips together in a line before he spoke, “I’m gonna say a word and you’re gonna tell me the first thing that you think of, okay?”

Ian made a face, “Why?”

“Just fucking do it,” Mickey chuckled. “Okay… table?”

“Breakfast.”

“Knife?”

“Cut,” Ian said.

“Glass?”

“Uh, clear.”

“Future?”

“Mickey ,” Ian replied automatically, then felt his face go red hot. Fuck.

Mickey paused, looking across the table at Ian; he picks up his glass of water and takes a drink, his eyes never leaving him. And Ian can’t really form a thought or anything else to say. They’d already said their I love you’s, but… he really hoped that this was going to last. Is that what Mickey wanted too though? Was he in it as much as Ian was? Because Ian was, as far as he could tell, all in. 

It made him a little nervous and scared because he didn’t want to move too fast, but maybe that was okay. By now Ian knows he’s overthinking this, thinking about how long they’ve been in each others lives, how it’s been only days since saying I love you. He stopped himself before he went too far down the rabbit hole of overthinking.

“I like that,” Mickey finally said, his voice soft.

Ian exhaled and grinned, “Yeah?”

Mickey nodded, “I really love… this restaurant.”

“Love it to the point where you’d… patron it for a long time?” Ian felt a fluttering in his belly. He never got his answer though, because that’s when the waitress brought over their food.

After that, they talked more about pretty inane shit, but it was nice. Ian wanted to talk more about _“patroning this restaurant for a long time”_ but after the interruption, he didn’t want to come off as desperate or weird, so the little ball of anxiety in his stomach stopped him.

But dinner was still nice. And Ian felt Mickey’s foot resting against his under the table; it was so cute and sweet that again, Ian was having a hard time not leaning over and kissing him. It was perfectly imperfect.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t go back to Mickey’s after dinner, they went to Ian’s. As soon as Mickey shut and locked the door, Ian kissed him, holding his face, pressing him gently against the wall of the hallway. He kissed him slow, teasing his full lips with his tongue before slipping in to taste. They didn’t have to talk, then —just standing there in the hall, kissing long and slow and soft. Ian loved him so much. Mickey was so important to him, made him feel so good.

They made it to Ian’s shower, carefully pulling clothes off of each other before going in to stand under the hot spray. Still kissing. Still holding each other. Mickey ran soapy hands all over Ian; Ian did the same to Mickey. Still quiet. Still soft.

After they got out and pulled on a couple pairs of Ian’s sweatpants, Mickey laid next to him on the bed. Ian on his back, Mickey on his side, hand rubbing up and down his stomach and chest, petting him like he liked to do. And Ian just laid back and took it, staring up at Mickey, not looking away for even a second.

“Wanna talk to you about something,” Mickey said, his voice low. His fingers brushed across the cut of Ian’s hip, running along the low waist of the sweatpants.

Ian nodded, holding back a moan; warmth flooded his body, hypnotized by Mickey’s touch.

“I like coming home and you’re there,” Mickey sighed. “Or knowing you’re going to be there soon, you know?”

Ian’s stomach flipped as he prayed that he wasn’t jumping too far ahead of Mickey’s words. His eyes widened a little, watching his boyfriend, feeling tattooed fingers glide up his body again, splaying out over his sternum.

“What we were talking about at the restaurant kind of made it really clear for me,” Mickey continued. “You wanna move in with me?”

_Oh god, oh god, oh god_ —Ian’s breath caught in his throat. He turned on his side to face Mickey, searching his face, making sure this was fucking real and that he wasn’t dreaming this up. Mickey chewed on his bottom lip, eyebrows raised high in question.

“Are you sure?” Ian asked, because the reality was that Mickey was still trying to get his business disconnected from some “unsavory” people. Surely having Ian move in with him would complicate things, right?

Mickey gave him a lopsided smile, arm draping over his middle, pulling him closer, “I’m _so_ fucking sure.”

“But… what about your business?”

“I’ll figure it out, but honestly I don’t give a fuck right now,” Mickey said, keeping his eyes on Ian’s. “I’m in this, Ian. A couple days ago I asked my lawyer to draw up divorce papers… I’m fucking in this, I want this.”

“Divorce papers?” Ian whispered.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah. I want to… patron the fucking restaurant for a long time, if that’s okay with you.”

Ian swallowed, going numb in the best possible way, “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Okay,” Mickey let out a shaky laugh.

 

* * *

 

They hadn’t moved in about twenty minutes, after coming together in a sweaty, moaning mess of limbs and _I love you’s_. Ian pulled from his cigarette, propped up against his headboard, Mickey propped up against his side, head on his shoulder. 

The sheets were messy and barely covering them, tangled up in their legs. Ian ran his fingertips over Mickey’s chest; Mickey ran his over Ian’s leg. It was quiet, post-coital glow and all that. He reached over and held the cigarette to his boyfriends lips, letting him pull from it as well.

“So?” Mickey sighed.

“Hm?”

“You gonna fucking move in with me or what?”

Ian smiled, putting the cigarette out in the ashtray on his nightstand, “Depends.”

Mickey snorted, “On?”

“You gonna let me help pay for bills and shit?”

Mickey turned his head so he could look at Ian; he pulled a face, “You gotta save your money for college.”

“Gonna feel like a kept boy if I don’t pay for _something_ ,” Ian said, completely fucking honest, because that’s what it would feel like and that was kind of where the line was.

Mickey’s face fell soft as he turned and climbed into Ian’s lap, straddling him, “It’s not like that with me, you know that.”

Ian bit his bottom lip through a grin, curling his hands over Mickey’s hips “Because…” he prompted.

Mickey rolled his eyes and leaned forward to brush his lips across Ian’s, hands coming to either side of his neck. He kissed him, pressing their lips together, moving slow and steady and very, very purposefully. Ian felt light-headed and buzzy all over.

“Because you’re my guy,” Mickey murmured.

Ian hummed, pressing another kiss to Mickey’s lips. “I love when you say that.”

“How about,” Mickey began, hands sliding down Ian’s chest, trailing kisses down his neck, “Half the electric.”

“And?”

“Half the water,” Mickey breathed, licking at Ian’s collarbone, “Because your showering is out of fucking control.”

Ian laughed, “Oh yeah, talk utilities to me. Keep going, baby.”

Mickey snorted against his skin, mouthing up the column of his throat, “And half the… cable,” his hands slid down between them, ghosting over Ian’s steadily swelling erection. “That enough for you?”

Ian groaned, pressing his head back against the headboard, unable to stop a breathy laugh, “That’s the good shit right there.”

“Anything for my guy,” Mickey chuckled, rocking his hips, pressing their erections together.

Ian’s got two handfuls of ass and Mickey dripped a couple drops of lube in his hand to grip them both together, gliding up and down their lengths. They’re both breathing hard by now, rocking into Mickey’s hand, mouths open and running over every available patch of skin, on each other. 

Ian cracked a grin through a moan, “What about the rent?”

Mickey keens softly, now using both of his hands to jerk them off steadily; it’s so fucking good, Ian know’s he’s not going to last long. The brunette presses his forehead against Ian’s, hips bucking every time Ian presses his fingertips into bruises leftover from the other night.

“I own it,” Mickey slurs out, and Ian has to think back a few seconds to remember what he’s talking about because the way his voice came out was low and distracting and sent this shudder down his spine. “Paid it off last year.”

Ian’s whole body is humming and pulsing with every stroke. Mickey is so fucking good at this and it’s driving him crazy, “Fuck, my boyfriends… a homeowner? Why is that —oh _god_ , like that— why is that so hot?”

Mickey breathed a strained laugh, his grip tightening, going a little faster, “You think that’s hot, you should… hear about my — _fuck_ — HOA fees.”

Something happened, and Ian’s not entirely sure how, but he laughed loud and hard, gripping onto Mickey —and the next thing he knew, his whole body tensed up and he was hit with a sudden and fucking _hard_ orgasm through his laugh, throwing his head back against the headboard. There was no warning, whatsoever as he came between them, all over Mickey’s hands.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit_ ,” Ian laughed as he shook, eyes watering.

“Oh my god,” he heard Mickey laugh.

Ian gulped down big mouthfuls of air, as his body started to relax, a goofy ass grin spread across his face. Mickey was watching him with wide eyes and an even wider smile, his hands completely still now. Ian gathered his wits quickly, still softly laughing as he knocked Mickey’s hands away and replaced it with his own hand, wrapping around his boyfriends erection, stroking him quickly.

“Fuck, Gallagher,” Mickey sobered up and grabbed onto his shoulders with slick hands, his hips rocking into his hold.

He was breathing hard while he stroked Mickey, who was slick with lube and Ian’s come. It was filthy and Ian loved it, urging him on, “Come for me, Mick. Come on, come for me.”

It was a matter of seconds before Mickey came. He slumped against Ian, pressing his face into the crook of his neck and let his hips stutter while Ian stroked him through to the end. And then Mickey laughed, so Ian laughed, because they’d been caught so off guard.

“Didn’t know the HOA got you so hot,” Mickey panted, climbing off of Ian’s lap.

Ian watched Mickey go into his bathroom, “You should see me talk about health insurance.”

Mickey laughed as he came back out of the bathroom, washcloth in hand. Ian grinned at his boyfriend, laying back, watching him clean both of them up, being so careful. He’d never felt so strongly for someone in his entire life. There’d been times where he thought he loved someone, maybe, but was never sure. But Mickey… Ian knew. There wasn’t even a second thought.

“I love you,” Ian told him, voice steady as ever.

Mickey tossed the dirty washcloth into Ian’s hamper and climbed back into bed with him. Ian couldn't take his eyes off of him, heart in his throat suddenly, feeling venerable —he wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe because he felt so strongly for Mickey, maybe because the thought of losing him was too much. He didn't like thinking about that. But then Mickey pulled the covers over them and pressed a soft kiss to Ian’s mouth; he felt okay again.

“I love you too,” Mickey whispered against his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a trying time in the fandom.  
> Thank god for fanfiction.


	14. The Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, how was the uh… spit roast?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Ian with a client.  
> idk thought I'd just give a heads up. It's not too bad.

Ian bit his lip as he had the most uneventful orgasm of his life (he’d been kind of checked-out from the moment the client had jumped on the bed and presented his ass like an over-eager dog waiting for a treat; _calm down, please, it’s just a dick_ ). He dropped his grip from his client’s hips and eased out, watching as Cooper grabbed onto the back of the client’s head and let out a deep noise as he finished too. It was kind of hard to look away, like a natural disaster.

“Take that shit,” Cooper grunted. “You like that sliding down your throat, huh? Yeah, milk that big cock, baby. Take all that, fucking cock-slut, you fucking cock-slut, choke on that fucking cock.”

Ian ket his eyes glued to the floor, breathing deep so he wouldn’t laugh, because he honestly had no other reaction for the situation —how many more times was he going to say cock? 

Out of all guys Ian had to tag-team with, of _course_ it had to be Cooper. Ian had a mouth on him when he was fucking, but Cooper just got _really_ into it to the point where half the time, Ian wasn’t sure if he should be covering his ears like a five year old. 

The client’s name was Doug, one of Cooper’s regular’s; he had wanted to suck Ian off while he was getting fucked by Cooper. But the thing was that no one sucked Ian’s cock except for Mickey now. That was _all_ Mickey, that was his, and Ian didn’t want anyone else’s mouth on him either. (In Mickey's _perfect_ scenario, Ian wouldn't blow anyone else but him either; Mickey had a thing about Ian being on his knees for him, he got kind of possessive about it -that mouth was for him, those eyes were for him. But they had to be realistic when it came to Ian's job.) 

So although Doug had been a little let down by this, in the end it didn’t really matter because he _pretty much_ got what he wanted.

It was routine after Cooper finished; they got dressed, got the money off of the dresser and left. Ian didn’t feel too much of a need to play up his role, no sexy bedroom eyes or flirty touches because Doug wasn’t his client and he was honestly just trying to get home and shower. He felt like there was a layer of sweat on him that didn't even belong to him.

In the elevator, Cooper redid his manbun and grinned over at Ian, “You’re the only guy I know who’d turn down a blow job, bro.”

Ian shrugged, “I don’t want a client doing that.” He couldn't pull the boyfriend card, no one knew (suspected, but didn’t know for sure), and he especially couldn't bring Mickey into this, with everything he was dealing with.

“That’s right, you don’t kiss either,” Cooper nodded. “I guess I get it —don’t want to get too intimate with clients. I’d have a hard time not kissing though, it’s such a big part of sex for me, you know? That _connection_. But I respect what you got going on, bro. I respect that. You got a good game.”

Ian sighed, wished Cooper would shut up, “Thanks.”

“What’re you doing after this, you wanna grab a beer?” Cooper asked. “I know you keep to yourself and all that shit, and that’s cool. But fuck, we’re here, you know?”

“Wish I could,” Ian lied as the elevator doors _finally_ fucking opened. “I gotta head over to my sister’s… it’s her birthday.”

Of course, Fiona's birthday wasn't for another four months. Debbie's, for another eight.

Cooper laughed, following Ian out, “Ah shit, man I know how that is. I got a ton of siblings, it’s like there’s a birthday every fucking month! Shit man, the last birthday party, my older brother was turning twenty-nine and I got so fucking wasted. Bro, I was out of my _mind_ , I don’t remember half of it, but the next day you should have heard the voicemail I got from my mom. She was _pissed_ at me!”

The only thing Ian could do was give a courtesy chuckle as they crossed the street, heading for Chris’ SUV. Ian’s boss rolled the passenger window down, taking the money that Cooper handed to him.

“You boys have fun in there?” Chris teased, counting out his profits.

Cooper laughed, thumping Ian hard on the back, “This guy’s a fucking pro. And the cock on him, ho-ly shit, boss did you know this fucker’s got—”

“I’ve heard,” Chris grinned, cutting Cooper off before things got even more awkward. 

Ian shook his head, drawing every last ounce of patience he had available. He just wanted to go home, shower, and sleep this shit off.

“We’ll be sad to lose you in a month,” Chris added, looking at Ian; he held out a wad of cash to each of them.

Ian smirked, taking his cut of the money and pocketing it, “Gotta get myself an education, man.”

“Awh shit, that’s fucking tight,” Cooper bumped his elbow against Ian’s. “My little sister just went into college, she’s doing fucking good, trying to be a nurse, you know? Wants to work in the ER or some shit —or pediatrics? I dunno, one of those. What are you going in for?”

“Uhm, not sure yet,” Ian replied, internally scrambling to get away from Cooper, he just couldn’t do it right now. “Hey Chris, can I get a ride?”

Chris made a somewhat frustrated face, “Get in.”

“See ya, bro,” Cooper waved, heading off down the street. 

Ian groaned, “Oh my god.”

Chris laughed, throwing his car in drive, “You left your car at home again?”

“No,” Ian said. “It’s down the street, I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Aw, come on, he’s a good kid,” Chris teased. “I think he looks up to you, you know? He’s been tryna get you in with that client for weeks. Wouldn’t take any other guys. Shit, either that or he’s got a massive boner for you.”

Ian rolled his eyes and snorted, “ _Great_.”

 

* * *

 

Ian sighed, tilting his head up into the hot shower water. He scrubbed himself clean, listening to the droning, rushing water, clearing out his mind, his usual ritual of post-work decompressing. 

It had been a while since his last three-way; they weren’t really his thing, even though he knew people assumed otherwise about him. Honestly, he couldn't really remember when his last one was, but he knew it was before he started getting serious about his health —that whole chunk of his life was a mess he didn’t like to think about. 

Hypersexual, impulsive, knocking back whatever drink or drug someone handed to him without thinking twice about it —that false sense of happiness. He'd made a lot of stupid decisions that, at the time, he thought he could justify; put himself in bad situations that, at the time, he didn't think were anything to worry about. 

He shook his head, scrubbing his face and chest clean, rinsing off, then stepping out of the shower.  He was back, he was Ian again. 

After he got dressed, he flung himself down on his bed, knowing he had to start packing up his things —he smiled— because Mickey asked him to move in with him, and he was going to do just that, and it was going to be so fucking _good_. He was going to fall asleep with Mickey every night and wake up to him every day. 

Ian knew he was acting like a blushing idiot, but he couldn't help it. Moving in. That’s a pretty big fucking step. He smiled wider, ignoring the natural pangs of anxiety about _oh god what if I move in and Mickey figures out that he’s not really up for all this_.

His phone’s shill ringing cut through the silence, making him jump a little, but he reached for it, answering the call, “Hey.”

“Hey, how was the uh… spit roast?”

Ian shut his eyes tight and sighed, fighting back a laugh, “Mick, come on.”

“Too soon?”

“You’re a dick,” Ian snorted. 

“Ay, if I don’t make jokes about it, I’m just gonna piss you off,” Mickey said. “It ain’t easy, man.”

Ian’s grin slipped when realized that the mood wasn't quite as light as he thought it was; he felt a deep settling guilt coat his insides, and tension prick his shoulders. “I know.”

“So how was it?”

“Everything was fine,” Ian answered. “The client wanted to uh… he wanted to blow me while he got fucked.”

There was a long pause before Mickey cleared his throat, “Did he?”

“No,” Ian answered. “I told him he couldn’t do that. You know I don’t let that happen.”

Another long pause, then a sigh, “I know.”

“You okay?” Ian asked, holding his breath.

“Yeah, I’m just fucking tired,” Mickey sighed again. “Long day, people not fucking cooperating.”

“You want me to… take your mind off it tonight?” Ian asked, moving to lay on his side, playing with a loose string on his blanket.

“I actually need to talk to you about that,” Mickey started; Ian heard a door close in the background, cutting out any extra noise in the background. “I gotta go on this work trip thing, won’t be back for a couple days.”

Ian took a deep breath, rolling to his back again, staring up at the ceiling.

“Ian?”

“I am being a supportive boyfriend because I love you, and because you continuously have to have conversations with me about my work. I don’t like it, but I have no room to bitch about it,” he said, completely monotone.

“I know,” Mickey said. “It’s not a bad run though, okay? Promise. It’s just a couple meetings in Detroit. Trust me, okay? It’s not a trip like last time.”

Like that time he came back with a busted lip, dislocated shoulder, and bruises up and down his ribs. That had shaken Ian; it probably shouldn't have, because he grew up in a neighborhood where people went through that shit all the time. But it was scary, seeing Mickey like that.

“Okay,” Ian said, “I trust you.”

“I trust you too,” Mickey said. He paused a little longer than Ian was okay with; he didn't have to see Mickey’s face to know he was hesitating. “We’ve gotta fucking leave in a few minutes.”

Ian rubbed his fingers over his forehead, breathing a humorless laugh, “ _Great_. Thanks for the heads up, glad I get to fucking see you before you go.”

“Babe, I just found out about it before I called you,” Mickey said, his tone soft and lulling, obviously trying to put out any fires before they exploded. “Trust me, I don’t wanna do this shit. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ian sighed. “Just be careful.”

“You could, you know, start bringing your stuff over to the apartment while I’m gone… settle in. Be there when I get home?”

Ian smirked, snorting a laugh, “Should I have your martini and dinner ready for you, like a good housewife?”

“I mean…” Mickey trailed off. 

“Chose your next words carefully, asshole,” Ian warned.

“I’m just saying, a good housewife wouldn’t be so fucking snarky about it.”

Ian laughed, feeling warmth spread over his chest. The quiet settled over them again, but it was easy this time. Ian laid on his bed and listened to Mickey breathe for a moment, closing his eyes, focusing on that sound. He could barely hear it, but it was there.

“Will you call me tonight?” Ian asked.

“Yeah, of course,” Mickey said; Ian could hear the smile in his voice.

When Ian got off the phone with Mickey, he started packing his clothes up. He didn’t have much, in terms of house goods… he had sheets and blankets and little random things he’d picked up here and there, but nothing major. He left those things behind anyways, because he hadn’t even spoken to his landlord yet about his lease. 

So for now, he just focused on packing his clothes, as much as he could. He didn’t have a terrible amount, but enough to where just one duffle bag wasn’t going to cut it, he’d need to come back tomorrow. You can’t have just a handful of shirts and a couple pairs of jeans when you’re hooking, after all. You needed some variety.

He threw his bag in the back of his car, took one last (well, not _last_ , but whatever) look at his apartment building, then drove the fuck off. It had been a decent couple of years, but it was time. 

 

* * *

 

He _really_ hadn’t meant to find it… the box. He wasn’t looking for it when he was putting his clothes away in the closet. It was one hundred percent accidental. The box wasn’t properly hidden, just on a shelf above Mickey’s jeans and jackets. A big black shoe-box, like the ones that boots come in. 

Ian doesn’t even know why he took the stupid thing off the shelf in the first place —curiosity getting the better of him, and all that. He’s not exactly one for snooping, but _really_ … big black box in a closet and he’s just supposed to keep on his merry fucking way? Come the fuck on.

The box is now sitting on Mickey’s bed —his and Mickey’s bed— completely unassuming; he know’s what’s probably in the box, but he hasn’t opened the lid yet. The quiet in the apartment is crushing… judging him for going through his boyfriends things. Ian feels like any second, Mickey is going to pop out from around the corner and put him in a time-out or something for snooping around.

He snorts at the thought, wipes his fingers across his mouth, head shaking. Fuck it, right? He flips the lid off the box and… yep. Exactly what he thought.

“Oh… my god,” he says aloud, to himself. 

_Of course_ Ian is no stranger to sex toys. He doesn't use them often, even with clients… it’s never really been in his wheelhouse. He’s just never quite gotten his head wrapped around the idea of using them when he has a perfectly good tool between his legs. 

It’s a vain, kind of shithead part of him (that he is completely aware of) that thinks _why isn't my cock enough, why bring in this fake plastic thing —I can do it better._  It’s dumb, he knows, but damnit he’s proud of his dick. He was blessed with a nice, aesthetically pleasing dick, okay. _Fuck_.

With his pointer finger and thumb, he reaches and grabs a long string of large black balls. “These are… so big,” he whispers, almost scandalized at the thought of Mickey shoving them up his own ass. His boyfriend’s got a thick, beautiful ass, but still… how in the _fuck_ …

They were kind of intimidating, to be honest, and heavy, knocking together as Ian moves them from hand to hand, holding them to his chest like a necklace. He set them down on the bed next to the box. “Christ.”

Mickey Milkovich had managed to scandalize his hooker boyfriend.

Then he pulled out a couple plugs; they were black too — _all_ of the toys were black, because his boyfriend is ridiculous. One of the plugs was smaller, the other a little on the larger side. Whatever, no big deal. 

Ian eyed the string of beads again, and breathed a laugh. How many could Mickey fit those? Ian shifted where he stood, his dick interested in the answer to that question as well. Ian adjusted himself and cursed, because this was a little new —getting turned on at the thought of sex toys.

He then pulled a vibrator out of the box. It was nice, sleek, five settings. There were a couple other things; good lube (with a relaxing agent — _no shit_ , with those fucking beads, how could you not), another set of beads (but smaller, normal sized), a prostate massager, stuff like that. Mickey had a nice little kit here.

There was a dark cloth at the bottom of the box that Ian moved, exposing a few other things.

“You little shit,” Ian laughed, pulling two pairs of handcuffs out of the box. _Actual_ fucking Smith  & Wesson handcuffs, keys and all. There were also a pair of what Ian immediately recognized as over-the-door restraints, that piqued his interest (he would _definitely_ let Mickey use those on him, if he wanted to). And a rolled up black leather belt. And a strap of black cloth that looked like a blindfold.

Okay, so in the grand scheme of kinks, were these things extreme? Absolutely not. Was Ian all that surprised that Mickey had these things? Absolutely not. He wasn't _expecting_ it... but he wasn't surprised in the least. The size of the large beads, however, were surprising and Ian couldn't stop looking over at them. 

The thing that caught him off guard was that they’d been together —been fucking— for almost a year now, and this shit _never_ came up. _That's_ what surprised him. _That's_ what had him reeling. How the hell did Ian not know this side of Mickey —and did it go deeper? 

He almost felt a little put-out that Mickey didn’t share this with him, that he didn't trust him enough or something. Mickey had always been comfortable telling Ian what he wanted. He’d always been so _vocal_ about it —why not this?

But he pushed that away, because Mickey was pretty private, and he was snooping around his _sex toys_ , so he really had no room to bitch. Ian put the box back together and set it back where he found it, closing the closet door.

“Fuck,” Ian groaned, looking down. His mind kept going back to those beads, but his dick was not catching the _we’re supposed to be scandalized because those were huge_ message that his brain was trying to send it. He palmed himself through his jeans, trying to ease the ache, and trying, so fucking hard, not to think of Mickey losing his goddamn mind while Ian shoved those—

“Stop it,” he groaned again. “Not now.”

No, but what kind of noises did Mickey make with the beads inside him? Would he let Ian cuff him to the headboard —face down, ass up, while he did that? How much would it take to get Mickey shaking and begging and slurring? Fuck, or if he could shove that bigger plug into Mickey, cuff him, and use that rolled up belt to… Ian shook his head, palming himself harder, breathing deep. He couldn't do that until Mickey shared that shit with him.

Fuck it. Ian grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand and headed for the bathroom to take care of his now _raging_ hard-on.

 

* * *

 

Ian was falling asleep on the couch while watching Dirty Jobs when Mickey called him later that night. He jumped as his phone rang, putting the TV on mute, and stretched his legs out on the couch.

“Hey you,” his voice came out kinda raspy from sleep. “How’s it going?”

“Did I wake you up?” Mickey asked.

“No, I’m good.”

“I can call you back in the morning—”

“No,” Ian interrupted him. “No, I wanna talk now. Your couch is too comfortable, I was dozing off. But I’m good.”

Mickey breathed a soft laugh and Ian felt all warm from it, “Our,” he said.

Ian frowned, “Huh?”

“Our couch.”

His whole face felt like it caught on fire, “ _Our_ couch, excuse me. So, are you holed up with your brothers for the night?”

Mickey snorted, “Hell no, I got money now, I get my own room.”

“Nice,” Ian laughed. “How’s Detroit?”

“Eh, you know… it’s Detroit. You bring over some of your stuff?”

Ian felt his stomach flip, remembering the box he found, “Yeah, brought some clothes. Gotta go back for more stuff tomorrow though.”

“If you wanna wait, I can help you out.”

“Nah, I got it, it’s okay.”

Mickey laughed, “I promise I won’t go through your shit, man.”

Ian slapped his hand across his forehead, feeling like a complete fucking asshole, “Yeah, I know,” he groaned.

“S’wrong?” Mickey asked.

Ian rolled over on the couch, facing the back, trying to disappear, “I’m a prick, that’s what.”

Mickey was silent for a moment, “What’re you talking about?”

He had to tell him, right? He went through his shit, and now he had to tell him. Especially because Mickey wouldn't do that —he wouldn't go through Ian’s stuff like that. Probably. Plus, it was probably a huge red flag if Ian didn't fess up, they were about to fucking live together. “So, I was putting my clothes away in the coset…”

“Okay,” Mickey prompted.

“Okay, so there was this box,” Ian sighed. “And I know I shouldn’t’ve—”

“You went through my box?” 

Ian held his breath, waiting for the explosion. Fuck, he should have just kept his mouth shut. Or just not have looked in that box. He should have just left it alone. What the fuck, what the fuck. Why did he do this shit? Why?

But Mickey started laughing, “Oh my god, you went through my fucking box.”

“I’m sorry!” Ian groaned again, “Babe, I’m sorry. It was just _there_ and…”

“It’s fine,” Mickey said, sobering up. “I mean, you _were_ going through my shit... but it’s fine. Not like I hid it or anything.”

His face was all hot again, voice coming out smaller than he wanted it to, “How come you never, you know, shared that stuff with me?”

Mickey took a deep breath and Ian listened to some rustling on the other end of the line before he answered, “Have you met my boyfriend?”

Ian frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I thought you’d get a little offended if I whipped out a fucking dildo and asked you to fuck me with it, because you’re so proud of that cock.”

His face got even hotter and at that point, Ian was trying to make himself disintegrate into the couch cushions, “Wouldn’t have gotten offended,” he mumbled.

“Okay,” Mickey’s tone was less-than-convinced. Fucker knew him too well.

“Offended is the wrong word,” Ian gave in. “I just… I dunno, I don’t really get it, but if you want me to shove a dildo up your ass, baby I’d do it. I’d be the best fucking dildo shover this side of Chicago for you.”

Mickey laughed loudly, “I appreciate that.”

Ian closed his eyes, mentally kicking himself because his body was starting to harden up again, thinking about those stupid fucking, slightly terrifying, beads. “I gotta ask you something though. About… the beads.”

There was a very deep silence that settled over the phone before Mickey answered, “What about them?”

Ian took a deep breath, adjusting himself through his sweatpants. This was ridiculous that his body was _not_ getting the message that he was slightly concerned about the size of those fucking things, being up his boyfriends ass. 

Never _once_ in his life had he ever looked at a string of anal beads and thought _hmm, yeah the thought of shoving those up someones ass really gets me going_. Never. And then fucking Mickey just so happens to have a goddamn rosary for giants in his little naughty box and his cock just completely surrenders to the idea.

“I mean, they’re kinda… big, right?” Ian asked carefully.

“Yeah,” Mickey answers, and Ian can hear the smile in his voice. “They are.”

He’s at a loss here, “Well,” he huffs, running a hand down his face. “How many, uhm… how many can you, you know…”

“How many can I what?” There’s that fucking dark smile in Mickey’s voice again, sounding like he just won the fucking lottery.

This was just fucking _absurd_. Ian is a grown ass man, a fucking escort, and he’s getting flustered over a goddamn sex toy. In what universe did this even make sense, honestly?

Fuck, he was getting harder. Ian grabbed himself in hopes of making it go back down, but it had the opposite effect. Not wanting to, he let out a shaky breath, burrowing more into the back of the couch.

“How many can you fit?” He finally asked.

There was a pause. Then, “Why, you wanna find out?”

Ian nodded, forgetting that Mickey couldn’t actually see him. He tightened his hold over his sweatpants, and tried desperately to clear his mind. It wasn’t working.

“I’m _real_ fucking surprised that this is getting you off right now,” Mickey chuckled.

Ian managed a grin, “Yeah, you and me both.”

There was some more rustling on Mickey’s end of the line and Ian desperately wanted to know what he was doing. He cupped his growing erection and stifled a noise, trying to keep his breathing steady. God, how many of those things could Mickey fit? What kind of noises would he make? Ian bet his skin got so flushed and sweaty too. Fuck.

“What else did you find, on your little exploration?” Mickey asked him.

Ian bit his lip, grinning, “Your vibrator… and the prostate massager.”

“Mmhm,” Mickey hummed. “Bet you’d really fucking like that, by the way.”

“What?” Ian asked, his hand moving from the front of his sweatpants, to play at the edge of his waistband.

“The massager,” Mickey said. “Bet I could get you to come real hard with that.”

Ian moved to lay on his back, fingers trailing up and down his abdomen, wishing it was Mickey petting him, like he does, “I believe it.”

Mickey breathed a laugh, “Where are you?”

“Couch,” Ian replied.

“Hm… that’s not where I want you to be though.”

Ian sat up, belly tightening at Mickey’s tone. God, this was happening and he was _so_ fucking ready, “Where do you want me to be?”

“In our bed,” Mickey said.

He nodded, scrambling up from the couch, not caring that he poked like a damn fool because no one was around. He made quick work of getting to the bedroom (trying to adjust himself on the way, fucking boners just get in the way of everything, _really_ ) and settled down on the bed, propped up against the headboard and pillows.

“Okay,” Ian breathed. “Okay, I’m in bed.”

Mickey hummed softly, “What else did you find in the box? I know you, you went through every inch of that fucking thing.”

Ian grinned, sinking down into the soft pillows, “I found your restraints you use over the door.”

“You like those?”

“Yes,” Ian replied, rubbing his palm over his stomach, down to the cut of his hips. Fuck, he really wished Mickey was doing this. Mickey did it so good. 

“Wanna get you in those,” Mickey breathed softly against the phone; Ian closed his eyes, dipping his fingers under the edge of his waistband. “Or have you get me in those.”

The thought of that, of Mickey restraining him against a door like that… yes, Ian was very into that. He trusted Mickey with that. He’d let him tie him up any which way —cuff him to the bed, whatever his boyfriend wanted. Ian trusted him to give him that free reign.

“Hand out of your pants, Gallagher,” Mickey said.

Ian’s eyes flew open, looking around the bedroom, hand yanking out of his pants. No one was there, “How did you…”

Mickey laughed quietly, “I told you, I know you.”

Ian smirked, “You get your hand out of your pants then too.”

“But, I wasn't the one snooping through people’s things,” Mickey said. He breathed against the phone again and Ian wanted to see what he was doing so bad. “I’ll tell you when, baby, don’t worry. Gonna take care of you.”

Ian bit back a moan and slid down until he was laying on his back, head on the pillow; his body shuddering from his boyfriends thick words. He was fully hard now, straining against his sweatpants, back arching just slightly because he felt like his skin was trying to suffocate him. Mickey breathing against the phone didn’t help matters at all.

“You wearing those sweatpants?” Mickey asked him. “The grey ones?”

Ian nodded, pushing his hand up his abdomen, brushing his fingers across his nipples one at a time, “Yeah.”

“I like those,” Mickey sighed. 

“I know,” Ian closed his eyes again, pushing his fingers into his hair, pulling gently at the root in frustration. “You want me to take them off?”

“Not yet,” Mickey said. “Want you to —fuck— want you to touch yourself over your pants.”

Ian groaned, his hand reaching down to do what Mickey told him. He cupped his hand over his erection, pressing gently and stroking over his sweatpants. The slight relief felt good; he inhaled sharply, “Want you. Want your hands on me.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” Ian said. “Love when you touch me… like your petting me or some shit, feels fucking good.”

“You’re skin is soft,” Mickey said, his voice quiet. “And warm.”

Ian tilted his head back into the pillow, adding a little more pressure onto himself, “And your hands in my hair. Love that.”

Mickey groaned low, “Feels good between my fingers. Love that fucking hair.”

“Yeah?” Ian panted, grinning. He tried to wrap his hand around himself as best he could through his sweatpants, stroking long and slow. There was a wet spot bleeding through at the tip of his cock and his thighs burned from tensing up.

“You remember the first time you came to the apartment?” Mickey asked him.

“Mmhm,” Ian hummed, squeezing himself hard. His mouth watered, remembering how he had Mickey bent over the kitchen counter, face fucking buried in his ass. He’d gotten so hard, so quick from listening to Mickey moan and whine above him. God, and then when Mickey turned around so Ian could swallow him down...

“So fucking good for me, letting me fuck your mouth,” Mickey grunted. “Felt… felt so fucking good —looking up at me, mouth open and fucking messy, wanting more. You got no fucking idea what that does to me.”

Ian breathed heavy, his pace picking up, the wet spot getting bigger; fuck, he might just come like this. “Please, can I… fuck, can I take these off?”

“Don’t take ‘em off, just… fuck, just…” Mickey trailed off, but Ian knew what he meant. He licked his palm and shoved his hands down his pants, finally wrapping around himself, letting out a drawn out moan.

“Want you so fucking bad,” Ian breathed as he gripped himself, thumb circling the tip of his cock, spreading his precum over the head. “Wanna bend you over the bed—“

“Our bed,” Mickey panted.

Ian nodded, hips rocking up as he stroked himself. “Our bed. Wanna bend you over our bed and fuck you like that. Hold you down.”

“Fuck,” Mickey hisses. “That’s my guy.”

His stomach flipped at Mickey’s words; he grinned as he kept jerking himself, listening to his boyfriends heavy breathing, “You want me to use those cuffs on you? Cuff your hands behind your back and bend… bend you over our fucking bed? Give it to you like that?”

“I… _fuck_ —”

“Or you cuff me to our bed and ride me,” Ian tensed, trying to get his words out, trying to focus. “Ride me into the mattress. Make me beg for it?”

“Jesus, Ian,” Mickey panted. “Gonna… fuck, gonna come.”

Ian nodded; he was close too. He reluctantly unwrapped his hand from himself, spit in his palm, and went back to work. “Shit, Mickey. Come for me —wanna taste you.”

It was a blur of gasping responses and heavy breathing. Ian bucked into his hand, imagining everything he wanted to do to Mickey, with Mickey. Wanted him there so fucking bad, wanted his hands on him, everything, touching him and gripping him hard while he took everything Ian gave him. Mickey panted into the phone, cursing and whining low. 

Ian came first, on the inside of his sweatpants, all over his hand. He caught his breath, stroking until he couldn't stand it anymore, urging Mickey on until he heard that punch of air and heavy sound that told him Mickey had finished too. 

He grinned, slipping his messy hand out of his sweatpants, and wiping it off on his clothed thigh (might as well, they already needed to be thrown in the wash) while he took a couple deep breaths, “Coming back tomorrow night, right?”

“I wish. The morning after tomorrow,” Mickey panted. “So your ass better be home and fucking ready when I get there.”

Ian bit his lip and grinned, “Yes _sir_ ,” he teased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're following me on tumblr, [**I'm moving to this new blog**](http://ifuckinlikeit.tumblr.com) because I'm sick of the side blog business. It's frustrating. It won't be "official" or whatever for a couple more days because I'm letting my queue run out on jellovich. But for future reference, I'll be at the new blog. Multi-fandom, mostly Shameless. *shrugs*


	15. Good Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Uhm… I’m going to call it het-sex dub-con-ish..? I’m not really sure how to label it tbh, but that seemed safest option to me. This is a Mandy centric chapter. Also, I kinda had to bend the reality of chop-shops and laws a little bit here, for the sake of my limited knowledge (despite looking things up) and how I’ve already set up the story/business. Whatever lmao

Mandy took a deep breath while she looked in the mirror. She hasn't been getting much sleep, and it’s obvious. She leans forward and gets real close to the mirror, staring herself down, looking at the blue of her eyes that match her brothers. It’s eerie, even for her. It’s like he’s looking right at her. Judging her, angry at her for what she did.

Now Mickey barely looked at her, barely spoke to her. When he did, he was angry, accusing her of changing. Was she changing? It was hard to tell. Maybe. If the shoe was on the other foot, Mandy had to admit that she’d probably would’ve felt the same. She fucked up —didn’t even know how that made sense to her at the time.

Her brothers were in Detroit, meeting with a couple Italians. They’ve been giving them trouble with Mickey’s big plan of breaking away from people who were high-risks. Italians are dramatic; they’re too fucking high-profile, and for some reason they just don’t fucking get it. 

Mandy couldn't go to Detroit; she had to stay back and hold down everything, because while Mickey and she were not on good terms, he only really trusted her to keep things running. That, and the Italians were still stuck in their old-school ways; barely even gave Mandy a second glance when talking business because she was “cursed” with a fucking vagina.  Gross reality of the job. It was always like that, though. Hardly fair to pin that _just_ on the Italians. Whatever. 

“Morning, beautiful,” Preston came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She smiled, finishing up her eyeliner and let him pull her back against him, “You’re in a good mood this morning.”

“Yes, well,” Preston nuzzled into the side of her neck, dropping soft kisses along her skin, “I’ve got a good feeling about my meeting.”

“Mm,” Mandy grinned, stilling Preston’s hands as they tried to inch their way down her thighs and catch the hem of her dress. “I’ve got to leave in like fifteen minutes, _I_ have a morning meeting too, hot-shot.”

He was hard, pressing against her ass, his hands slipping out of her loose grip and bunching up the fabric of her dress, “Then I think we _should_ … you know, for good luck for the both of us.”

Mandy rolled her eyes, her bottom lip catching between her teeth, “Pres…”

“I’ll make it quick,” he whispered against her ear, one of his hands sliding between her thighs while the other held her hip.

She laughed, “I’m serious.”

“Me too,” Preston bit at her earlobe, fingers ghosting over her panties. “Just lean forward and I’ll take care of everything else.”

But Mandy turned in his hold, her arms wrapping around his neck. Although his offer was just so _super tempting_ (note the sarcasm, because _seriously_ ), she couldn't let Mickey down, especially right now, “I’ll make it up to you, okay? I really have to go.”

Preston’s handsome face tightened for a second before he sighed, relaxing, “Don’t know why you bother with that garage. Your brothers made it a complete boys club.”

He didn't know about everything that went on behind the curtain. The stripping stolen cars, dealing, running —everything else. He didn't _understand_ , and Mandy had a hard time faulting him for that. Preston probably couldn't even picture Mandy in that setting; she put up a good front for him. All he knew was that her family owned a couple successful garages and made a decent name for themselves.

“You don’t think I can handle a boys club?” Mandy arched a brow at him, tugging playfully at his tie. 

Preston rolled his eyes, his hands reaching down behind her to palm her ass through her dress, “I didn’t say that. I just meant that it seems like sometimes your brothers…”

“What?” Mandy prompted.

He shrugged, “I just think you’re better than working in a garage office all day. That’s all. You can do more with your life. You’re better than _that_.”

Mandy sighed, leaning up to press her lips against his; she fought down the lump in her throat that reminded her he meant _them_ instead of _that_. He meant well. “I’m right where I want to be.”

“Are you, though?”

“Of course,” she frowned, pulling away to look at him. “I like it.”

“So when you were a little girl, you always dreamt of working in a garage?” he asked, his eyebrows arching. “I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s a family business,” Mandy dropped her arms at her sides.

Preston shrugged, “Then why aren’t you with your family on this business trip?”

She paused, then stepped around Preston to walk into their bedroom for her purse. “Because someone had to stay behind and keep an eye on things. You know, what _I_ should be doing right now.”

“Hey,” Preston gently grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “I’m sorry. I just… sometimes it feels like they don’t appreciate you. And it’s hard to stand by and watch everything get dumped onto you while they go off and take care of the big-boy stuff.”

“They don’t leave me out,” Mandy sighed.

“Alright,” Preston conceded, unconvinced. “Have you thought about what we talked about a few weeks ago? About the position at my dad’s company?”

Mandy folded her arms under her chest, but stayed silent. Yes, she thought about it, but it was hard to really wrap her head around. An office job? For a Milkovich? The pay was tempting —the benefits and stress-free life… well, maybe not stress _free_ , but compared to everything that came with her family’s business now, yes… stress free. It was tempting. 

She’d be working with —not with, _under_ — Preston. An office managing position in the accounting department. Cushy office. Regular business hours. Set salary. It was very, _very_ tempting. Intimidating as fuck… but tempting.

“I need more time,” she said.

Preston sighed, “I don’t know how much more time I can give you, baby. Just think about it some more, okay? Work for people who will appreciate you, and not take you for granted. Then we can _relax_ on the weekends and… start thinking about, you know… the future.”

Mandy smirked at him, “Yeah, yeah. I’ve really got to go now.”

He pressed his forehead against hers, “I love you.”

She smiled, fingers brushing into his short brown hair, “Love you.”

Preston leaned down and kissed her, hands framing her face. He kissed her hard, licking into her mouth like he always did. He was passionate, and all-consuming like that. She kissed him back, matching that passion; it was infectious.

Then she was being walked backwards and hoisted up onto the bathroom counter. She laughed against his mouth, gently pushing at his chest, “Pres, I gotta—”

He pulled back from the kiss and smirked at her before dropping to his knees, pushing her legs apart. He started pressing kisses to the insides of her thighs, “Don’t even have time for _this_?”

She blushed, her eyes rolling, “Not really—,” Mandy gasped as her hand flew down, burying in Preston’s hair; his mouth pressed against her, kissing her through her panties. He moved her legs to rest on her shoulders, nuzzling his nose against her, breathing her in. She gave in, sinking back, resting her elbows on the counter.

“Damn, baby,” He murmured, his hot breath making her tingle and ache between her legs.

She really should have left already. If she was late and Mickey found out, he was going to be fucking pissed; but she pushed it back, focusing on Preston. Admittedly, it had been a little while since he'd done this for her, and she really didn't want to deal with him getting all huffy and annoyed if she _made_ him stop. 

So she grinned, lifting her hips, helping her boyfriend tug her underwear off. He tossed them to the side, moved Mandy’s feet to rest on the counter, shamelessly opening her up for him. 

She blushed, because he made her feel like this good girl, not a dirty hood rat from South Side. Good girls blush when their boyfriends spread their legs like this, making a feast out of them. Preston thought she was a good girl —a tough girl— but still a good girl, who was “bad” for him. He didn't know about South Side. About… anything. So she let him think that.

His mouth was hot against her. Mandy brushed her fingers through his hair and rocked closer to him, letting herself whine and pant —like a good girl. She tried to ignore that little voice in the back of her head telling her to _just_ _be_. 

Because _this_ wasn’t really her. She’d never been in love, so she never _made love_ before, not _really_. Sex was a war that after years of losing, she finally started to win. Mandy Milkovich grunted and cursed and scratched. She bit like a feral cat; _demanded_ orgasms, no matter how short the timeframe; she wasn’t afraid to get hers.

Except with Preston. Because Preston was a good boy, from a good family; he could give her the life that she was supposed to want. A good life, a perfect one. He was good for her. So she could play pretend sometimes, be soft, be good; it was okay.

Preston stood, settling between her legs, kissing her hard. She heard his belt buckle clinking and she sighed into the kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. Mandy pulled back, catching her breath, “I told you, I don’t have time—”

“Real quick,” Preston breathed heavy against her mouth. “You’re so fucking sexy, baby, please,” he was already pushing his pants and boxers down his legs, grabbing for her hips.

Mandy smirked at him, “You’re a spoilt brat, you know that?”

He grinned, nodding, “Yeah but you love me.”

“Alright,” she heaved a sigh, not exactly in the mood for a quickie, but Preston’s cute face was flushed and needy. And he did have a nice dick. She slid off the counter and turned, facing away from him.

“Look at you, dirty girl,” Preston grinned at her through the mirror, lifting the back of her dress up.

Mandy held in the sarcastic laugh; she smiled and dipped her head, pretending to blush again. He had no idea. It was better this way.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck,” Mandy’s heels clicked sharply on the pavement as she scrambled into the garage’s office. Fifteen minutes later than she should have been there. Fuck!

It was a balancing act that normally she would be able to handle, but right now, while she was irritated at herself; she just couldn't get it together. Completely off her fucking game. A coffee thermos in one hand, huge purse and newspaper in the other, sweater draped over one arm, car keys ranging from her teeth. 

Her hair was a goddamn mess, legs a little wobbly still, and she was pretty sure that her cheeks were still flushed. What a fucking _mess_. All because Preston just couldn't bear to part ways this morning without getting his fucking dick wet. _Men_.

“Shit,” She hissed, a sinking feeling pooling in her gut. 

A black boat of a car (a ’64 restored Lincoln Continental —it was fucking gorgeous, and Mandy _always_ wanted to drive it) sat out front of Milkovich  & Sons ( _Sons…_ yeah.), a couple of guys leaning against it. One stayed leaned up against the car, the other met Mandy halfway to the door.

“Ruben, I’m so sorry,” she apologized, words distorted because of her car keys.

Ruben held a hand out in front of her, effectively halting her walking, the other resting lightly other shoulder when she wobbled, “Mami, you’re gonna break your fucking neck. You mind if I take these?” He motioned to her keys dangling from her mouth.

She nodded, giving a half shrug when his dark eyes glinted playfully at her as he took the keys from between her teeth, “I’m sorry I’m late. I had this thing come up this morning—”

“It’s okay,” Ruben said, easing her purse and newspaper out of her grasp, leading the way towards the office door. “Don’t worry about it.”

Mandy knocked her elbow against his as they walked, “Your mother raised you right, did you know that?”

He just grinned, opening the door for her. Before he followed her in, he called over to the other guy (Either Aaron or Abel —they were twins, and Mandy still couldn't figure out the trick to tell which was which) who hadn’t moved from leaning against the car. Mandy didn’t know a terrible amount of Spanish, but it sounded like Ruben was just telling Aaron or Abel that he’d only be a few minutes.

Mandy lead the way past the front desk —taking a couple messags written on slips of paper from Bonnie, the girl behind the desk. “Tell me he hasn’t called this morning,” Mandy frowned.

“He called this morning,” Bonnie winced. “Said to give him a call, whenever you decide to show up.”

“Damnnit,” her shoulders slumped, but she kept walking. She couldnt catch a fucking break could she? Mickey was going to rip her a new one —as if he needed another reason to do so. She took a sip of her coffe, unlocked her office door and held it open for Ruben, giving him a thankful grin when he put her newspaper and purse on her desk for her.

“Okay,” she sighed, moving around to sit behind her desk. Ruben sat in the chair in front of it, watching her with that amused, shit-eating glint in his eyes. 

“Rough morning?” He asked her.

Mandy breathed a laugh, pushing her hair out of her face; she put the messages next to the office phone and took another sip of coffee, trying to settle down, “Just had to take care of something I wasn’t planning on taking care of.”

Ruben nodded, leaning back in his chair, “So, how’s things?”

“Good,” Mandy rested her elbows on her desk. “Things are good, how’s the family?”

He gave her a playfully flat look, “You’re a terrible liar, you now that?”

“And you,” Mandy arched a brow at him, “Are great at deflecting questions.”

He had a warm, infectious laugh that had Mandy laughing with him immediately. She took another sip of her coffee, feeling her shoulders relax, before reaching for the black logbook on her desk, flipping it open until she got to the page she was looking for.

“Mickey has in here that you need a rush job —eight full breakdowns and two re-Vinnings?” Mandy asked.

Ruben nodded, “Yeah, as soon as it can get done.”

She nodded, grabbing a pen to write some stuff down, “What make?”

“Audi,” he replied. “Four S7’s, four A5’s, an S8 plus, and a TT coupe. Brand new.”

“Breaking down the S7’s and A5’s?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You have them already, or are you picking them up?”

“They’re ready to go,” Ruben said.

Mandy nodded again, “And… you’ve already taken care of the GPS, or you need one of my guys to drop by and deactivate them, till we can move them to the site?”

The Site was this old scrapyard right outside of the city —kind of isolateed and junky, but it served it’s purpose. Milkovich & Sons didn’t break down cars at the garages, it would bring too much heat and attention to the business. 

“All taken care of, Mami,” he smiled, his dimples cutting into his cheeks.

She smiled back, “Great. We _should_ be able to get this shit done tomorrow. Tonight, if I can round up enough guys.”

Ruben nodded, “Perfect. Oh, one other thing… you guys hiring?”

Mandy laughed, “You looking for a job?”

“Nah, not me,” he laughed with her, running a hand over his short, dark hair. “My little bro, Nico. Tryna get him to keep his nose clean, you know. Thought if you had a spot open for him in the garage…”

“Aw Nico,” Mandy beamed. He was a cutie. Sixteen, bright-eyed and Ruben’s little mini-me. An absolute sweetheart. She didn't know the full backstory, but Ruben’s had custody of him and his little sister for almost ten years now.

“Yeah, you haven't seen him in a minute,” Ruben smirked. “He’s starting to think he’s a big man now, tryna run with me and my boys. So I gotta set that shit straight. Motherfucker’s going to college, end of story.”

She gave a little _what’re you gonna do_ shrug, “He’s sixteen.”

“Yeah, what were _you_ doing at sixteen?” He asked.

Mandy snorted, “Moving meth in South Side, the fuck were _you_ doing at sixteen, Martinez?”

Ruben laughed loudly, nodding his head, “A’ight, a’ight. Fair enough.”

“I’ll talk to Iggy, set up a time where he can come in so we can, you know, see where he’s at. I’m sure we can find something for him to do, keep him on legit work.”

Ruben nodded, standing from his chair, extending his hand out to her, “I’d really appreciate it, Mami.”

Mandy stood as well, taking Ruben’s warm hand in her own, shaking it, “No problem. I’ll let you know about the cars and when I talk to Iggy, as soon as I can.”

“Cool,” he grinned, leaning over the desk to kiss her cheek —he always did that and it took Mandy a little bit to get used to it, but she was cool with it now; she kissed his cheek in return. She watched him turn to leave her office, looking back, “You’re a good fucking person, Mandy.”

Her face got hot as she raised a middle finger towards Ruben, smile on her face. It was nice to hear that, even if she didn’t really believe it so much right now. She sighed, now alone, looking around her little office —the filing cabinets, stacks of papers on her desk. She wondered what an office where Preston worked would look like. Probably a lot nicer, more organized. Probably didn't smell like motor oil.

She had to call Mickey. Fuck.

He answered after the third ring; she could hear her other brothers hollering in the background, catching her name being thrown around, “The fuck, Mandy?!”

“The fuck _what_?”

“You had Ruben waiting for you! I thought you could handle this shit! You were supposed to be there; what, I gotta fucking hold your hand now?”

“Fuck you!” She hissed into the phone, heckles raising immediately. “It wasn't a problem, everything is fucking _fine_. You’re blowing up for nothing.” She heard more shit-talking from her older brothers before there was the sound of a door slamming and then silence,”You know what, you and your dumbass brothers can all go fuck yourselves..”

“You were supposed to be there _on time_. The fuck are you thinking, having people wait around for your ass to show up? What, you too busy fucking that pretty boy to come into work —or ganging up with Svet to pull some more mean-girl shit?” 

Mickey’s voice had dropped to his ugly, harsh tone, and Mandy forgot about everything else for a second. About the fact that she hurt him and she was supposed to be trying to make up for it, because the heat pulsing down her back was drowning everything else out. She stomped to her office door, slamming it shut so no one could hear her.

“Fifteen minutes,” she seethed. “I was fifteen fucking minutes late! I bust my _ass_ for this business, I make nice with people that _you_ piss off, I handle shit when you’re off with your fucking boyfriend for the weekend, turning your goddamn phone off. Don’t you fucking come at me for fifteen fucking minutes! Fuck. You. It’s Ruben… _Ruben_. It was fine, and you know it, so stop looking for a fucking fight.”

She pushed her hair out of her face and kicked her heels off so she could pace her office, letting out everything she needed to say, “You’re still pissed at me, I get that —I fucked up with you, and I’m _going_ to make it better. But don’t bring it into the business, and try to nit-pick at me like I’m one of your guys. I know you, and I _know_ you’re looking for a reason to yell at me. So fuck you, it’s not happening today.”

“I’m good at my job,” she added to the silence. “You should fucking _appreciate_ that, while you dump all this shit on me and leave me behind —you _know_ I should be there.”

Mickey was so quiet on the other end of the line that Mandy wondered for a second if he hung up. She took a couple deep breaths to calm herself down, shaking her head. She hadn’t even noticed until right then that her eyes were stinging with angry tears, every muscle in her body tensing and aching.

She doesn’t expect him to punch out a small, almost surrendering, noise, “Okay.”

It makes her stop pacing, deep frown softening. She knows her brother and she knows that there’s about ten thousand words packed behind that simple _one_. Strangely, it’s enough. She understands —he understands— the message has been fucking received. So she nods, “Damn right, _okay_.”

“What’s he got for us?” Mickey asked.

“Eight oil-changes, two new alternators,” Mandy recited their little code, because they didn’t talk business details like that over the phone. She exhaled roughly, going back to sit behind her desk, feeling a little lighter in her shoulders. “Cars have just been detailed, nice and shiny.”

“A’ight. I’ll let you do your thing,” Mickey sniffed.

She nodded, “I’m going to try to get it done tonight. I’ll let you know. Tell Iggy that Nico Martinez needs to be put on one of his service lines. He needs to be put on _payroll_.”

Another beat of silence, “I’ll let him know, boss.”

Mandy, despite herself, smiled a little, “Don’t be a smartass.”

When Mickey let out one of his soft _genuine_ laughs, she couldn't help but smile wider. Seemed like forever since she got her brother to laugh. “We gotta leave here to meet up with some buddies. I’ll fill you in when we get back, okay?”

“Okay,” Mandy sighed. “Be safe.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's just a glimpse, but I’m really hoping that Mandy and Preston’s relationship came across how I wanted it to. It’s weirdly complicated and simple at the same time, so I hope it translated. 
> 
> If not: she forces herself into his “mold” because she sees him as everything she *should* want. He’s a “safe” option for her. He pulls her away from her family (consciously or not), feeding her these ideas that they take advantage of her or don’t appreciate her. He’s gotten into her head (again, consciously or not). Part of her knows that it’s happening, but she just wants it to work so badly, because he’s a “nice guy” and he loves her. So, she’s suppressing who she is a lot.


	16. Pretty Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona’s smile was soft, eyes glittering. “It’s pretty serious, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't wanna call this 'content warning' but just a heads up... have you met my bottom!ian before? *makes super creepy sleeze face*

“You _sonuvabitch_!” Ian laughed, standing from the couch. He smashed his thumbs down on the Playstation controller buttons, body leaning a little to the right. “You’re cheating!”

“How am I cheating!? You just suck at this!”

Liam was kicking his fucking ass in Mortal Kombat. Absolutely just… kicking his ass.

His fucking life bar was getting smaller and smaller by the second, Liam’s character was just _wailing_ on him, relentless, while he had him backed up in a corner. Ian cursed while his baby brother cackled. 

“That’s what you get for picking a little bitch like Sub Zero,” Liam laughed.

Ian, so far gone into this stupid game, climbed up and stood on the couch cushions, tongue caught between his teeth. He managed to jump out of where Liam had trapped him, “Maybe if you didn’t  _always_  take Scorpion!" and froze his character where he stood, "Ha!”

It didn’t help though. About a minute later, Liam jumped up from the couch, hands raised in the air chanting in a goofy, deep monster-voice, “Finish him! Finish him!”

Sub Zero, the little bitch, was left motionless, face down on the ground. Ian shook his head, flopping down onto the couch while he watched Liam make a round around the living room, still chanting. “Alright, alright, we get it, you won.”

 

* * *

 

It hadn’t been a whole Gallagher production. Ian just went over to the old house to have dinner with his brother and sister, and to spend time with them. Fiona made spaghetti and garlic bread, and the three of them sat down at the little kitchen table and ate. 

Carl flitted in and out, stealing a piece of garlic bread and a bite of Liam’s food; he didn’t live there anymore, but he didn’t _not_ live there. He’d been mostly staying at this guys house for a few months. Ian didn’t know the situation, hadn’t met the guy, but it seemed borderline serious.

Carl didn’t go half-in when it came to his heart, but he hadn't had a _serious_ relationship since high school. Ian forgot the girls name, but she moved away to Florida for college after graduation. They tried the long-distance thing, but it didn’t work out; Carl was real broken up about it for a while.

He never had an actual coming-out. It was just Carl. One day, when Ian was still living at home, Carl brought over a guy, and it was just… it. Not that an explanation was needed or anything, but there’d been no official _oh by the way I’m bi, it’s a thing_ conversation. Lip had just shrugged at it, saying he wasn’t surprised in the least. Honestly, no one was that surprised.

“Ay, you got any condoms on you?” Carl dropped down in the chair next to Ian. “I’m ‘bout to head out and I don’t wanna stop on the way. Xan’s already started without me.”

Ian choked on his drink as Fiona gave him a flat look. “You over-share,” she told him. “This is what we keep telling you about. You over-share.”

“Excuse me for trying to have safe sex,” Carl grinned.

“Y’all are gross,” Liam groaned, getting up from the table, bringing his plate to the sink. “I gotta finish my homework,” he added before heading upstairs.

Ian reached into his back pocket with a sigh. He pulled his wallet out, and slapped a condom into his little brother’s outstretched hand, “Here.”

Carl’s eyes went wide, looking down at the gold foil packet in his hand. He looked up at Ian, then back down at his hand, “Are you for real?”

Ian snorted, “What?”

His little brother shook his head before shoving the packet back into Ian’s hand, “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Both Ian and Fiona laughed loudly as Carl raised both middle fingers in the air and went out the back door. Then Ian helped his big sister clean up the rest of the dishes, putting the leftovers away in the fridge. It was so quiet in the house; Ian couldn't remember it ever being so quiet before. It was kind of surreal.

“So how’s things?” Fiona asked him. They’d moved out to the front steps, each lighting up a cigarette before Ian went home.

He nodded, “Good. I’m gonna stop working real soon. Find another job, you know.”

“Yeah?” Fiona perked up a little at that. “How soon?”

“About a month,” Ian replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I’ve been looking at colleges, trying to figure out what the hell I wanna do.”

She smiled at him, real big, one of those almost-teary Fiona smiles. She reached over and scrubbed her fingers into the back of his hair, “Good… you have any idea?”

Ian snorted a laugh, “Nope.”

“You’ll figure it out, you’re a smart kid. I’m glad you’re getting out of that shit, though,” she said, looking out at the street. “I was worried that you’d get stuck doing what you’re doing.”

It took Ian a second to realize she was talking about him escorting, “It was never permanent, Fi.”

“I know,” she nodded, looking back over at him, “I still worry about you. It’s just something I’m always going to do. I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” Ian said. “I’m uh…”

He hesitated, tapping his thumb against the butt of his cigarette. He was never big on sharing with his family, but there was something driving him to tell his sister a little about Mickey. He hadn't been able to tell anyone, really. 

Chris was the only one who knew anything —and all he knew was that Ian and Mickey were seeing each other personally. He’d been surprisingly understanding about having a _very_ regular client suddenly drop out like Mickey did. But when he started jacking up Ian’s going rate, it was less surprising. As long as Chris could make a buck, he was fine.

“I’ve been seeing this guy,” he finally said. “I mean… I got a boyfriend.”

Fiona smiled wide, “Really?”

Ian nodded, “Yeah. I just moved in with him. Yesterday.”

“Oh my god!” Fiona hit his shoulder. “For how long? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Taking one more pull from his cigarette and blowing it away from his sister, he shrugged, “It’s complicated. He’s not out; he’s got a lot going on with work that kind of fucks with everything, so we gotta keep it real quiet. He's pretty sure his family might know, but they've never talked about it.”

“Are you okay with him not being out?”

Ian shrugged, “It’s what I kind of have to deal with right now. I don’t exactly feel like I have a lot of ground to stand on, doing what _I_ do for a living. Plus, it’s not gonna be like this forever.”

“Does he know about what you do?”

Ian winced, looking over at Fiona, “It’s how we met.”

She got real quiet for a minute, like Ian knew she would. Like she was trying to put together words that wouldn't piss him off, or cause a big fight between them. She was probably thinking the worst —thinking he was back to his old ways, maybe off his meds.

“He just turned twenty-nine a few months ago,” Ian added, for her benefit. “I’m going to be helping with the bills; so, you know, it’s not like _that_. He drinks, and smokes weed sometimes, but thats it. No hard drugs.”

Her face fell in relief, “Oh thank god.” Ian rolled his eyes, managing a little grin while his sister continued, “Does he know about your bipolar?”

Ian nodded, “Yeah.”

“How’s he with that?”

“Good,” Ian shrugged. “I mean, I’ve been pretty steady for a while, so there hasn't been much going on with that.”

“So you _are_ staying on top of your meds?” Fiona asked carefully. When Ian looked over at her with his lips tight, she put her hands up in surrender, “I’m just asking.”

Ian exhaled heavily, “I’m staying on top of my meds. I go to the gym a few times a week, I’ve been sleeping good, I don’t drink, I’ve had a _schedule_ for when I work… I’m handling it.”

Fiona pulled on her cigarette, nodding, “Okay, I won't ask about that anymore today. So, what’s this guy like?”

He rolled the question around in his mind for a second before answering. What was Mickey like? He was complicated. And layered. He was both in control, and still trying to find his way. He knew Ian better than anyone. He loved Ian, and Ian loved him. 

“He’s a good guy,” Ian tells his sister. “He uh… he helps me feel good about myself. He actually, _genuinely_ likes me, and wants to be around me —there’s no bullshit, you know? There’s no ulterior motives… he’s good for me. And I want to be around him, and I _genuinely_ like him… and he says I’m good for him too. He just gets me… it works, _we_ work.” 

They took care of each other. It was real. It was so real. Not perfect, not at all. But good. Mickey was good. There was chemistry and balance that Ian was always pretty positive he'd never be able to find with anyone before. 

Fiona’s smile was soft, eyes glittering. “It’s pretty serious, huh?”

“It is,” Ian smiles and rolls his eyes, feeling his face start to heat up. “I love him —I’m _in_ love with him.”

Oh Jesus, she was tearing up. Ian rolled his eyes as his big sister wiped at hers. “He in love with you?”

He smirked, “Well, I’d fucking hope so.”

Fiona laughed, reaching over to grab his hand, holding it tightly, “Then I’m happy for you. You deserve to be happy, and for someone to love you like that. He’s a lucky guy. So… when can I meet him?”

Ian laughed, “Uh, I’m not sure. He’s got a lot going on right now, with his work.”

“What’s he do?”

Ian pressed his lips together, giving his sister an apologizing look that he hoped she understood. He couldn't talk about it; telling her about Mickey probably wasn’t exactly supposed to happen either. But shit, Mickey’s sister knew.

Fiona snorted a laugh, teasing, “What, he in the mob?”

No, not _directly_. Ian shook his head, giving her the bare-minimum, “No, uh… his family owns a couple auto-shops, and stuff.”

She sighed, like she was surrendering to his simple response, “Alright… can I at least know his name?” Ian gave her that same tight-lipped look, and her shoulders fell.

“Okay, fine… Mick, and that’s all I’m going to say, okay?” Ian gave in. “Just don’t go telling Lip, please? Or anybody, not even Vee.”

Fiona sighed heavily, “You and your secrets —I promise I won’t tell anyone, not even Vee. One more question though.”

“Hm?” Ian hummed, taking one last pull from his cigarette before putting it out on the step.

“Is he hot?”

Ian grinned, wide and slow. Is Mickey Milkovich hot? Pfft. He nodded, “He’s fucking beautiful.”

 

* * *

 

It’s so early that it’s still dark outside. Ian’s dead asleep, just barely woken up by the bed dipping a little beside him, and a warm body slipping under the covers to lay directly on him, a soft mouth pressing light kisses to the back of his shoulder and neck. Ian quietly grunts, pressing the side of his face into the pillow; he recognizes his boyfriends touch immediately, and it was the only thing keeping him back from being startled. 

Mickey is warm, and soft yet solid, and feels so good draped over his back like that. Ian feels himself start to drift back to sleep; even though inside he’s all floaty because his boyfriend is back, it’s just so fucking early and part of him is seriously wondering if this is all a dream.

And then Mickey starts brushing his fingers into Ian’s hair, his lips feathering over his cheek and ear while he whispers so _quietly_ to Ian. The words are only for Ian. They’re sweet, and honest, and Ian loves with Mickey drops his guard and does this. There, in the dark, with his raw and honest voice, Mickey tells him the truth; doesn’t hold back; tells him so _quietly_.

Then Mickey shifts, sliding off of Ian’s back to lay next to him. Ian, body hot and feeling all fluttery from Mickey’s words, turns and reaches out for Mickey, pulling him close. He presses a soft kiss to Mickey’s lips and sighs, settling his head back down on the pillow. Mickey whispers to him, telling him to go back to sleep. So he does. 

 

* * *

 

He couldn't really count how many times he’d woken up to Mickey’s touch running up and down his back. Or his lips mouthing across the curve of his ass. Or soft, careful hands guiding him, moving his legs to bend at the knee, propping his ass in the air. 

Ian grinned, half-heartedly trying to wake up, as he was gently moved, his hips being raised just enough to slide a couple pillows under him. His boxers were then slipped down his legs, exposing him to the cool air of the apartment. 

Slowly his body started waking up again. Mickey’s hands skimmed the back of his thighs, over and between his ass cheeks. Kisses dropped here and there. He was almost tempted to reach back and pull his boyfriend in for a kiss, but the moment a warm, wet tongue dragged up his perineum, he decided that it could wait. He moaned; his whole body warmed, tingling all over. 

“Got home early,” Ian mumbled into his folded arms.

Mickey breathed a laugh against him, working his tongue upwards, kissing him, going painfully slow. He gently squeezed Ian’s ass, opening him up, and Ian’s back arched when he felt Mickey lap at his tight ring of muscles. Ian stretched his arms out as much as he could, grabbing on to the edge of the mattress in front of him. His body sparked to life, sleepy and sensitive nerves humming under his boyfriends tongue.

“Fuck,” Ian breathed, trying to move his legs so he could raise up a little more for Mickey, but Mickey held him still, his tongue gliding heavily over his hole. Ian let himself be stilled, let Mickey take over; his eyes clenched tightly and he kept making these ridiculous almost-mewing moans because it felt so fucking good. 

God, he almost hated this —not what Mickey was doing, that he fucking _loved_ — he almost hated how sensitive he was in the mornings, how he couldn't fucking control himself. Mickey was licking down to his perineum, then back up and at that point, Ian was losing all sense of time and focus. Mickey didn't stop, lapping wetly at him and prodding at him with his tongue, dipping down to kiss the backs of his thighs, hands rubbing all over his skin. 

He felt sweat bead up on the back of his neck, and his hips seemed to rock all on their own, mouth open and pressed against the pillow. Ian moaned and keened, and griped the edge of the mattress harder when Mickey moaned against him.

Ian, mostly boneless now, weakly reached for the nightstand. He needed it. He needed it so fucking bad, he couldn't think straight. He fumbled with the knob of the drawer, stopping when Mickey moaned again, breathing harshly against him.

Finally Ian got his hand cooperating again, reaching into the drawer, fumbling around until his fingers wrapped around the bottle of lube. He picked it up and haphazardly tossed it back to Mickey. He goes back for a condom and throws that back behind him as well.

“Mm,” Mickey hums, pulling away from Ian —Ian whines, just openly _whines_ — from the loss, his hips still rocking down, humping the pillows under him. He’s so keyed up, so fucking ready, probably leaking all over those fucking pillows he’s pressing down against.

If you would have told Ian a year ago that someone would be able to get him to crave bottoming, he would have told you that you were _out of your fucking mind_. But the only thing Ian wants — _needs_ — right now is his boyfriend inside him. The thought of switching this around doesn't even cross his mind. He actually didn't even _want_ that right now.

Warm, slicked up fingers rub at him. Ian’s hips still, his breath ragged, body heaving every time he inhaled. Mickey rubs at his lower back with one hand while the other works him open. He takes his time, murmuring softly to Ian, telling him how good he is, his voice soothing, getting him to relax.

“Mick,” Ian pants, feeling his eyes sting. “Fuck, Mickey…”

It feels so fucking good. Mickey’s pushing a finger into him, slowly and carefully, and it’s getting to that point where Ian’s about to lose the last remaining bits of control over himself. Fucking sensitive ass mornings (literally).

“Breathe,” Mickey whispers, one hand petting down Ian’s spine, finger pushing in and out of him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian chants, breathless, hips back to rocking. The stretch around Mickey’s finger is a dull sting, but he wants more. “I just…” he trails off, catching his breath.

“S’okay,” Mickey starts to push in a second finger, “I know. I got you; breathe.”

While Mickey works two of his fingers in and out of Ian, he moves and settles up against his side, the angle of his fingers changing, drawing out another whine from Ian. Mickey drops a kiss to Ian’s shoulder, his blue eyes are so dark right now, blown the fuck out, and Ian can’t stop staring at them. 

“You want me to keep going?” Mickey asked, fingers stilling.

Ian inhales deep, nodding his head, “Yes.”

Mickey grins at him, kissing his shoulder again, fingers going back to work, slowly and carefully pushing and scissoring, opening him up. “So good for me.”

Ian gasped for air, “Fuck —baby, _please_.” He’s humming all over. And hot. So fucking hot.

Mickey switches the angle of his fingers, pressing up against Ian’s prostate; Ian buries his face into the pillow and moans loud into it, muffled and ridiculous, but his body is on cloud nine; he wants it _so_ bad. He’s ready. He’s ready. He’s fucking ready.

“Okay, okay,” Ian pushes back against Mickey’s hand. “M’ready… fuck, baby, please, m’ready.”

“There’s my needy bottom,” Mickey laughed, sliding the pillows out from under him, so he had to fully support himself now.

Ian barely has the focus to tell him to fuck off. Mickey fucking _knows_ how he is right when he wakes up. He loves riling Ian up like this, loves getting him all whiney for it. He’s just _lovely_ like that —the prick. 

His throat is getting dry from his mouth being open and panting so heavily, and his whole body is aching so badly for Mickey. Ian closes his eyes and lets himself drift off, lets himself completely surrender to everything he’s feeling. It’s so good and by the time Mickey has taken his fingers from Ian’s body, tore open the condom wrapper, slicked himself up, and started prodding and pushing into him, he’s _gone_.

Mickey goes slow, and patient at first. It _is_ the morning after all, and Ian is so fucking sensitive, that it’s kind of needing to be like this. Ian shivers and raises up on his elbows, his head hanging down between his shoulders as Mickey runs a hand up and down his spine, murmuring softly to him.

“So good for me,” Mickey says to him; his hands are everywhere, gripping and petting at him like Ian loves. Over his back, his sides, his hips and thighs, his hair. “Love you like this.”

“Mick,” Ian says, over and over. He whispers it, and pants it, and moans it, back arching, pushing back against his boyfriend.

Mickey lays over Ian’s back, and Ian turns his head, and they kiss as well as they can. It makes Mickey press deeper into him, and Ian moans into the brunette’s mouth. He felt so full, and warm, and good. Mickey pulled away from the kiss, his hands still touching everywhere, and Ian dropped his head back between his shoulders, pressing his forehead against the mattress.

Ian let out an almost tortured and confused noise when Mickey eased out of him. He looked back, brows raised in question, “What… what're you-”

“Turn over,” Mickey panted. “Wanna see you.”

He does, breath heavy when Mickey settles over him, slowly pressing back into him. That stretch. That sweet burn. Ian keens and reaches up to touch Mickey’s shoulders and chest, just wanting to feel his skin under his hands. Mickey makes the best sounds when he’s buried inside of him. They’re quiet, breathy, and heavy noises.

“So fucking tight for me,” Mickey whispers, hooking his arms under Ian’s knees, drawing his legs up as he settles over him.

Ian punches out a moan, feeling a jolt shoot through his body when Mickey presses up against his prostate. He’s basically folded in half, wedging a hand between him and Mickey so he can jerk himself while Mickey pushes into him. And it’s fucking perfect.

“God, right there,” Ian shudders, body going tight.

Mickey pushes his lips to Ian’s, getting closer, hips rolling a little faster, hitting in all the right places. They moan into each others mouths, breathing heavy and hot. Ian’s toes curl, squeezing his cock, trying to catch his breath and kiss Mickey at the same time.

Wave after wave of need washes over Ian, and it’s almost too much. It ripples like water, crashing violently at his edges. He keens and hooks his hand around the back of Mickey’s neck, kissing him hard, opening up when Mickey licks greedily into his mouth. He’s almost there, almost shattered.

“Fuck,” Mickey pants, dropping Ian’s legs, pushing closer to him. His lips drop wet, open-mouth kisses to Ian’s throat, licking at his skin. He rolls his hips deep, and quick, and perfect. “My guy, mine,” he presses his lips to Ian’s ear, pushing deep, “So good for me; love you like this, love you.”

His eyes sting and he tries to hold off, he tries to wait. His voice comes out strained and broken as he says Mickey’s name, tells him how good he feels, tells him he’s about to come.

Mickey holds the back of Ian’s head, pressing their foreheads together, mouths open and panting heavily —lips ghosting over each other, “I got you,” Mickey pants. “I got you, look at me — _fuck_ — look at me.”

Ian forces his eyes open, looking directly into Mickey’s blue ones (“ _I… I love you —fuck, I love you._ ”); he buries his hand into the back of Mickey’s hair and hold him there, his body tensing up tightly. He breaks. God, it's so good... it's so fucking good, it's so good. He sobs out a broken noise, eyes stinging and watering, (“ _Yeah, yeah Mickey… Mick, yeah fuck -fuck!_ ”) and just fucking _breaks_ , coming between the two of them, hot and hard. Mickey fucks him through his orgasm, repeating his words over and over again right before he comes too, calling him _good_ , and _his guy_ and all these things that make Ian feel like he’s floating.

Holy _shit_ , he loves morning sex.

 

* * *

 

The smell of bacon takes over the whole apartment. Ian groans, his stomach rumbling loudly, and knocks back his morning meds with a handful of tap water from the bathroom sink. He closes the medicine cabinet and looks at himself, grinning wider because he’s pretty sure he’s got a permanent smile on his face. Yeah, he’s a little sore, a little wobbly, but he feels fucking great. Fantastic morning sex, and now Mickey’s making him breakfast? Shit, yeah.

In the kitchen, Mickey’s bare back is to him while he’s cooking at the stove, his muscles moving under his skin as he reaches for things and pokes at the bacon in the pan. Ian comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, dropping a kiss to the top of his shoulder.

“Gonna get popped with grease,” he tells him.

Mickey breathes a laugh, “I’ll be careful, mom.”

Ian grunts, biting his shoulder while he pinches Mickey’s side; the brunette laughs, trying to dodge away from him and flip the bacon at the same time.

They eat breakfast at the counter, sitting on the barstools. Mickey made eggs with cheese, and toast to go with the bacon. Ian made coffee. It was kind of perfect and ridiculous, sitting with Mickey, grinning at each other, brushing soft kisses against each others mouth between bites. Mickey makes sure he rolls his eyes and pulls faces at Ian every now and then, just because they both know how dumb they look right now.

But then their bliss-bubble was popped by heavy, frantic knocking on the front door. Ian jumped at the sudden noise, frowning as he looked at his boyfriend.

“Stay here,” Mickey said, his brows drawing together. He reached under the counter where they sat and pulled out a fucking gun; and Ian was _reeling_. 

When Mickey got up from his barstool, Ian peeked under the counter real quick to see one of those under-the-table gun holders bolted there. _What. The. Fuck._ Where else did Mickey keep fucking guns in the apartment? Ian wasn’t opposed to them or anything; he knew how to use one, was even a pretty good fucking shot. But still… _what the_ _fuck_.

He heard the sliding click of metal as Mickey checked the chamber; Ian’s heart was in his throat, watching the brunette disappear behind the wall when he moved into the hallway. It was deathly quiet, apart from the pounding knocks, that seemed to turn less frantic and more angry. Ian got up from his barstool and took a step towards the hallway, just in case Mickey needed him.

Any other situation, Ian would have been right next to Mickey, ignoring the brunette telling him to stay where he was. But there were other factors in play, so Ian had to stay. 

This was the fucked up part about living with Mickey, Ian realized. This was the reality —no one knew. If that was someone Mickey worked with, at the door… they couldn't see Ian, not with how little he was wearing. How little _both_ of them were wearing. It was obvious what was going on. 

It sucked. But Ian knew going into this, that _this_ was it. _This_ was what he had to deal with for the time being. Mickey was worth it.

“Who is it?” Mickey asked.

“Iggy,” Came a voice from the other side, and Ian exhaled, taking a step back, away from the hallway. “Open the fuck up! We gotta go!”

Ian stayed out of sight, his heart sinking back to where it belonged, but he knew he had to stay out of sight because Mickey’s brothers still didn’t know, and he’d really rather not deal with another situation where Mickey asked him to leave.

The front door opened, “The fuck are you doing here right now?” Mickey’s voice was tight. 

“Get dressed, can’t play house right now, we gotta go,” Iggy said in a rush. 

Ian frowned —wait, _did_ Mickey’s brothers know?

“The fuck're you talking about?” Mickey sucked on his teeth. “Go where?”

“Don’t have time for this shit,” Iggy said. “Get fucking dressed, now! We gotta go to the hospital, Yev got stung.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but I love my sensitive, lil-needy-bitch bottom!ian lmao  
> And bi!carl. I love bi!carl. The world needs bi!carl.
> 
> I just wanted to take a minute to thank everyone who keeps up with this! I had no idea this was going to go on for this many chapters (or what direction it was going to go in), and I have no idea how many more there will be, but I'm excited to find out! I appreciate all the love you guys show this fic, so much. And I know I don't reply to comments on this particular fic, because idk why I get _a lot_ of anxiety with it, but just know I am reading them and love all the feedback so much :)
> 
> I love all you babes Xx


	17. The Father Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Room eight,” the woman said. “Through those doors to the left, I’ll buzz you in. It’ll be on the right hand side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I did not have time to fully edit this properly, but I went thru it once. Just as a warning for anything weird or incorrect. I just wanted to get this out today and I have 8.5 million things to do lol
> 
> Content Warning: Iggy's casual gay slurs/comments/things.

“Yev got stung.”

It all went quiet. Mickey couldn’t process what his brother just said to him; to be honest, he constantly _forgot_ that this was even a thing. It never fucking happened, except once when they first found out he even had a fucking allergy. But it just… it _never_ happened, so he never thought about it, so he forgot. He fucking _forgot_. Then when Iggy said Yev got stung, Mickey didn’t understand for a good ten seconds what the big fucking deal was.

And then his stomach dropped. Yev got stung. Yev _can’t_ get stung. Yev could…

“Fuck,” Mickey tore away from the door and went straight to his room so he could grab what he needed. Shirt, shoes, wallet. His hands were shaking, trying to not think about the worst case scenario here. Did someone give him his shot thing in time —fuck, what was it called? EpiPen. Did Svetlana get to him with that in time? Was he okay? Could he breathe? Fuck, _could he breathe?_

He froze when he got back out to the living room area, seeing his brother and Ian standing together. He couldn’t… he really couldn't do this right now. His head was spinning too much with Yev, and now Ian and Iggy were standing right next to reach other, Ian’s hair looking like he got _royally_ fucked his morning… which, he did. Fuck. He couldn't do this right now—

“Mickey,” Ian said, catching his attention. “You gotta go.”

Mickey just nodded, mouth opening and closing, not knowing what to say or do, but Ian just nodded back at him like everything was okay, and Mickey didn’t stress about it, he just followed his brother out of his apartment. It went by so fast. They were there, then they weren’t.

 

—

 

Mickey hated hospitals. They smelled fucking awful and every time he went, he ended up arguing with someone who worked there. He just got so anxious, and now, with his son taken into the ER because some stupid fucking bee stung him, everything was worse.

“Milkovich,” Mickey told the lady at the front desk of the ER. He fished his drivers license out with shaking hands, handing it to her, as Iggy did the same. His heart was racing and it was nearly impossible to breathe —could Yev breathe? Was he okay? Did they get to him in time? 

Mickey had never felt this level of panic before; he didn’t know what to do, never thought it was in him to react this way about his son. That first time Yev got stung, when he was five, Mickey hadn’t even been in town, and didn't hear about it till after the fact.

Could he breathe? People could  _die_  from this shit, could he breathe?

“He just came in… he, uh, he got shot — _stung_ , fuck he got stung, sorry. He’s twelve —he’s allergic, and he uh, he got… a bee stung him, and he cant… his name’s Yevgeny Milkovich.”

Thankfully, this woman was calm, and nodded, clicking away at her computer after glancing at their ID’s. She didn't even ask how to spell the kids name. Should he clarify that? How could she fucking know, the kid had a weird ass name —what if she spelled it wrong and then told him there’s no one here by that name, and then Mickey would have to—

“Room eight,” the woman said. “Through those doors to the left, I’ll buzz you in. It’ll be on the right hand side.”

Mickey nodded, taking a deep breath, “Okay. Thank you.”

Iggy followed him back. Mickey found the room easily, but the curtain was drawn over the little viewing window, and the door was closed, so his chest went all tight. He stood outside of the room. Could he breathe? He couldn't lift his hand to open the door. Twelve years he’s tried to avoid his own son. Twelve years he’s not been there, couldn't be there. Could he breathe?

He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently easing him forward. Mickey took a deep breath, feeling his eyes sting, his vision went a little blurry, before he turned the handle and opened the door.

Yev looked so small, propped up in the hospital bed. Pale, and small and exhausted. Mickey swallowed hard, stepping into the room. Svetlana in sitting in a chair beside the bed, both of her hands holding one of their sons. She looked up at Mickey when he came into the room; watery, red eyes, but she gave him a grateful soft smile.

Mickey made his way to the other side of the hospital bed, looking down at his son. Yev looked up at him with his big blue eyes, his eyebrows trying to raise too, but the kid just looked way too tired to even bother with it.

“Hey,” Mickey breathed, hesitantly reaching out and running a hand over his sons soft hair. He could breathe. He was okay. Mickey let out a sharp breath and let his shoulders fall, taking his hand away.

Yev managed a little half-grin, “You should see the other guy. Killed ‘em.” 

Iggy snorted, standing next to Mickey. Mickey shook his head and smiled, eyes watering up. How he managed to have a kid like Yev was _beyond_ Mickey. He didn’t know too much about his son, but what he did know was that it took a lot for the kid to get knocked down. He was okay. He could breathe. He was smiling.

He’d said for a long time that Yev hated him, or didn't like him. Right then, he realized that Svetlana was absolutely right… he was full of shit. Honestly, he wouldn't blame the kid for hating him. He was surprised that he didn’t. It probably would have been easier if he did, in a weird way. If Yev hated him, then Mickey would have had a better excuse, would feel better about everything. If he were Yev, he’d hate him.

He realized that Yev looked at him and saw something beyond the surface. Yev was so young, but anyone could spend five fucking minutes with him and tell that he was an old soul. He understood things. 

Mickey hadn’t been there, and hadn’t always been the greatest to be around, especially when Yev was younger —but there was something in Yev’s eyes when he looked at Mickey. It was kind of nerve-racking, but kind of a relief at the same time. Like Yev _saw_ Mickey. And right there, in the hospital, Mickey finally opened his fucking eyes and _saw_ Yev.

“How’re you feeling?” Mickey asked him.

Yev shrugged, “Tired… achy.” His voice was a little rough with exhaustion; his throat was probably bothering him a little, Mickey guessed. He honestly didn't know how all this worked.

He nodded, looking over at Svetlana, “What happened?”

She sighed, shrugging as well, “He was outside with friends. Then I have two little boys pounding on my door, screaming that he is on the ground, and cannot breathe.” She stopped, wiping at her eyes, looking over at their son. “Scared the life out of me.”

“Can he go home?” Mickey asked.

“Doctor wants to watch for a couple hours,” Svetlana said. “Just to make sure everything is okay.”

Mickey frowned, “Why the fuck wouldn't everything be okay? They did what they needed to do, right -why can't we take him home?”

“Protocol, bro,” Iggy said. “Can’t just send a kid home after that shit. They gotta keep an eye on him.”

“M’sorry,” Yev said, his voice quiet.

Mickey turned his frown towards his son. “What?”

He shrugged, “Sorry.”

Mickey shook his head, “Got nothing to be sorry for. Bee should be sorry. I’m glad those fuckers are dying out.”

That got a little laugh out of the kid. He shrugged again.

They waited around for an hour; Iggy found a couple of chairs, pulling them into the tiny room. A nurse came in to check Yev’s vitals, and see how he was feeling -the kid fell asleep after that, and Mickey finally got his heart to stop trying to beat out of his chest, could finally fucking breathe. Then Mickey and Iggy went to go grab some coffee.

He checked his phone while they walked around the hospital hallways, trying to find one of those machines or the cafeteria, whichever came first. Ian texted him, _Is he okay?_

Mickey texted back, _Yeah, all good. They wanna watch him for a little longer. Should be back in a few hours._

_Thank god._ Ian’s response came quickly. _Take your time, do what you need to do, he needs you._

Mickey chewed on his lip, looking down at his phone. He didn't know what else to say, so he pocketed it, following his brother down yet another hallway.

“Boyfriend?” Iggy asked, looking over at him.

Mickey narrowed his eyes at him, not saying anything.

Iggy shrugged, “Seemed like a good dude. You and Mandy got a type, huh?”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Mickey pulled a face, he finally saw a sign for the cafeteria and turned in that direction.

“Got yourselves a couple of pretty boys,” Iggy laughed.

Mickey’s face went hot as he reached over and shoved his older brother, “Fuck off.”

“Which one of you takes it?” Iggy pressed, shit-eating grin on his face.

Mickey shook his head, “Not the fucking time, man.”

His brother raised his hands in surrender, “A’ight, touchy subject,” he grinned. “Seriously though… I mean I met him for about two seconds, but he seemed cool.”

“He is,” Mickey sighed.

“Ian, right?”

Mickey felt his shoulders tense up, “How’d you—”

“Relax, I introduced myself, like a fucking civil person,” Iggy waved off. “So was that a sleepover, or…”

Mickey just shook his head, “Don’t worry about it. How’d you even know he was there?”

Iggy lead the way into the cafeteria, keeping his voice low, “Uh, because the last time you answered your door in your fucking underwear, you had some twink holed up in your closet.”

It felt like his stomach dropped to the floor, “Fuck you, no I didn’t.”

But Iggy just nodded, “Yeah, you did. Think I don’t notice shit? I notice shit.”

 

—

 

After they got their (shitty) coffee —bringing back a cup for Svetlana; Mickey grabbed a water bottle for Yev too— they worked their way back to the emergency wing. The hospital was such a mess of hallways, and Mickey was pretty sure they took a couple wrong turns, so it was taking for-fucking-ever. Another reason why Mickey hated them.

Before they went back to the room, Mickey motioned to a little side-door that lead to an outside smoking area. After the turn his day took, he realized that he hadn't had a fucking cigarette since last night, and his head was starting to pound like a fucking drum.

There was a little table and chairs, and one of those gross standing ashtray/garbage bin things in the smoking area. Iggy and Mickey set the coffees and water bottle down and Mickey had to bum a cigarette off of his brother because he hadn't even left his apartment with his own.

It was all starting to sink in, when he felt that toxic, warming smoke fill up his lungs. Just a couple changed factors today, and Mickey could have lost his fucking son. To a bee. To a fucking _bee_. 

Thank god Svetlana had been home. Thank god Yev’s friends had the sense to go straight to her. Thank god Svetlana always carried around an EpiPen in her purse. Mickey didn't have one of those. Not that he was with the kid all that much, and not that he actually knew how to use one, but maybe he should get one. Carry it around in his pocket or something. In his car. Fuck.

“Rough morning,” Iggy said.

Mickey exhaled a cloud of smoke through his nose, “No shit.” He paused, looking over this brother, “How come you didn't just call me?”    

Iggy shrugged, “I was over by your place when Svet called me. I figured it was easier to just go get you.”

Mickey nodded, pulling on his cigarette again, “Why’d she call you first?”

Iggy finally looked over at him and frowned, “Huh?”

“Why the fuck she call you first, that’s my kid… why didn’t she call me?” Mickey asked.

“I dunno, man,” Iggy sighed, shaking his head. He scratched at his eyebrow like he was holding something back, and Mickey wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to hear what else he had to say, or not.

He knew what Iggy was thinking. He was thinking it too. Mickey didn't exactly have the greatest track record for picking up Svetlana’s calls, especially recently. He didn't have the greatest track record about being there for Yev. He didn’t have the greatest track record for being a father. He did what he could, sure. He was there for the broken arm, sure. He supported them. 

But when Yev broke his arm last year, he hadn’t gotten to the hospital right away, because he ignored Svetlana’s phone call and hadn’t bothered to listen to the voicemail until an hour later. And he always pulled the _busy at work_ card when it came to Yev. He'd only stopped by for the broken arm for a little bit, enough to see that the kid was in one piece, before he left.

The last —first and only— time he hurt Yev, he was drunk. He hadn’t put a finger on the kid. Would never do something like that, he didn’t hit him. But Mickey had been drunk, still living at the house, and was in a bad fucking mood. Yev had been seven at the time, when Mickey stumbled into the house, knocking something over, waking up everyone.

Yev came down the stairs in his little pajamas, with his sleepy face and asked if Mickey was okay. And Mickey doesn’t remember everything exactly as it happened, but he’d said something to the effect of no, he wasn’t okay —he wasn’t okay because _I’m fucking forced to live with you and your fucking mother, and I don’t want either of you. Don’t love either of you_. 

Mickey felt his eyes sting at the memory. He said that to a child. _His_ child. He broke his sons heart when he said that, sent him running upstairs, crying. Yev hadn’t talked to him for weeks after that —hadn’t been the same after that. And that was on Mickey, that was Mickey’s fault, and it killed him. That was a Terry move.

It was about the same time when Iggy stepped up, filling this void that Mickey left empty and cold. Iggy spent time with the kid, talked to him, was the first person Svetlana called when something was wrong. Iggy.

Mickey looked over at him and sighed, “Thanks for, you know… with Yev.”

Iggy shrugged, “It’s whatever, man.”

But Mickey shook his head, “It’s not whatever. I’m fucking bad at this dad shit. I can’t, you know, I can’t be there, and you’re there. And he fucking needs that. So… thanks for being there for my son.”

Iggy was quiet for a while. Mickey couldn't remember the last time he had a serious conversation with him; if he _ever_ had a serious conversation with him. Iggy was always that dopey older brother. He was funny and laid-back, always taking things with a grain of salt.

“I didn’t know,” Iggy said after a while. He looked over at Mickey and shrugged, “I didn’t know about what he did to you and Svet. A couple months before he died, I was over at his place and he was out of his fucking mind on coke and he’d been drinking all fucking day. And he was saying this shit about… about what he did. How he fixed you.”

Mickey felt sick to his stomach. He could only imagine that Terry must have been _really_ gone to have been saying that shit, because there was no way that he would ever utter anything to allude to the fact that his boys were nothing but straight.

“I mean, I knew since Svet came into the picture that you were… not into it,” Iggy said. “But fuck, I just thought you slipped up and got her pregnant while you were trying to hide that shit from him, and then he made you fucking marry her and… you shoulda seen your face at the wedding. You put on a good front, Mick. But not that day. That’s when I knew, for sure.”

Mickey breathed a humorless laugh, wiping at his eyes. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, not really wanting to talk about all this shit, grabbing his coffee cup and Yev’s water bottle. “Like I said, man,” he said to his brother. “Thanks for everything with Yev.”

Iggy nodded, following him back inside the hospital, “Can I ask you something?”

“I guess,” Mickey shrugged. Might as fucking well, it seemed like Iggy knew every other fucking thing in his life. Why not add to the pile.

“That guy make you happy?”

Mickey stopped short, giving his brother an odd face, not sure if he heard him right, “Huh?”

“That guy you’re seeing, the pretty boy,” Iggy shrugged. “He make you happy —you’re good?”

Hesitantly, Mickey nodded, “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Iggy nodded back.

 

—

 

After another two hours, Yev was discharged from the hospital. He slept the whole time while they were there, curled up in the bed, still looking so small and fragile. Mickey still couldn't shake the fact that this whole mess could have gone so incredibly wrong. He could have lost him. And despite the fact that Mickey wasn’t close with the kid, it would have broke him.

Mandy came by the hospital, teary-eyed and frantic. She stayed, while Iggy had to go take care of some business. And that left Mickey with the two women who he didn't really want to be left alone with, didn't want to talk to or look at, but it didn't matter so much. Today wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about him and his sister and his soon-to-be ex-wife, so he pushed down the part of him that wanted to walk the fuck out of there.

They all went back to the house; Mickey had to carry Yev up to his room, because the kid was still so exhausted. His body had been put through an enormous amount of stress, completely draining him of all his energy. 

Mickey’d never done that before, he’d never carried his son up to bed and tucked him in. Yev was twelve now, long arms and legs curling around him like a much younger child would have done. Yev was a good, sensitive kid, but he was strong. But right now, he was so fucking vulnerable, and it kind of hurt to see him like that.

His son had posters all over his deep blue walls -superheroes, and video game shit, and bands; gray bedding; tornado box in the corner of his room; overflowing dirty-clothes hamper; shoes piled up next to the door; skateboard. Just a kid. Just a _normal_ twelve year old kid. His kid.

Mickey put him in bed, drawing the covers up to his chin, kind of awkwardly tucking him in. Yev still slept; he was normally kind of a light sleeper, but right now he was anything but. So Mickey took advantage of the moment to touch his sons dark hair again, pushing it off of his forehead —soft, and fine, but thick. Like his. He was pale, but not as pale as Mickey, light freckles, expressive brows. His son. 

Mickey could have lost him.

God, he was sorry. He wished he could say it, but the words wouldn’t come —even though Yev wouldn’t hear them because he was passed the fuck out. He’d been sorry for a while, but right then and there… fuck, it just took over. He was so sorry. He’d try. He’d _try_ to try. He couldn’t shake the thought of losing Yev. This was his son, his child. He wanted to be _that dad_ so badly, he wanted to know what the fuck to do, wanted to be able to bond. He’d try -he promised he'd try.

He closed the bedroom door behind him, stood there for a second and took a deep breath. Mickey ran his hands through his hair, trying to find something to ground him. His mind was all over the place.

When he got back downstairs, Mandy and Svetlana were in the kitchen, talking quietly. He eyed them for a second before clearing his throat, letting them know that he was there.

“He is sleeping still?” Svetlana asked. Her eyes were wet, but she seemed like she was holding it together.

Mickey nodded, “Yeah. Mandy, can you give me a ride home?”

“Sure,” she said, grabbing her purse and keys.

Mickey looked back at Svetlana, “Something like this happens again, you call me first. Not my brother.”

She sighed, “You do not pick up when—”

“I’ll pick up,” Mickey cut her off, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to get her to listen to what he was saying. “Okay? Iggy’s not his fucking dad, I am. So you call me first, I’ll pick up.”

Svetlana didn’t respond, just arched a brow at him. Like a little we’ll see — _we’ll see if you really do pick up_. Instead she sighed and leaned back in her chair, letting out a shaky breath, “Hopefully this will not happen again.”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah.”

“I am surprised you did not bring your orange boy to hospital—“

“No. You don’t get to fucking talk about him,” Mickey pulled his lip back as he spoke.

There was an odd pause, where Mandy cleared her throat and slung her purse over her shoulder, “I’ll wait for you in the car,” she told Mickey.

He nodded, walking over to the kitchen table, where Svetlana was, sitting in the chair next to hers. “You sign the papers?”

She didn’t say anything, just got up from her chair, went to a kitchen drawer, and came back, holding a manilla envelope close to her chest as she sat back down in her chair. “We were friends, you know,” she said, evidence of exhaustion in her voice was stronger than before. “It took a long time, but we were friends.”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah, we were. Then you fucked all that up, didn’t you?”

Svetlana’s eyes were still red as she handed him the envelope, but she kept a tight grip on it, “You give me your word you will not leave him. You will not give him less?”

Mickey didn’t like when Svetlana went soft like that. Her grip was hard on the envelope, but her eyes, her face, were so unsure and streaked with worry, like she was close to breaking from everything that happened with Yev. He tugged on the package, but she held onto it tightly. “Don’t fucking give me an ultimatum—”

“I will give you divorce no matter what,” Svetlana cut him off; voice thick, a slight tremble. “I want to live, you want to live, we do not love each other. This is _fine_ , I have already signed papers. Just please do not run away from our son. I ask you mother to father, please.”

“I’m not trying to,” Mickey yanked the package from her hands. “ _You_ keep bringing that shit up, I’m not running away.”

Her reddened eyes welled up even more, chin trembling for a second before she let out a sob that sounded like she’d been holding in for the whole day, “Mickey, we almost lost him!” Her hands covered her face as she folded in on herself; Mickey didn’t know what to do, kind of startled by Svetlana letting herself break down like that. “My baby… we almost lost…”

Fuck. Mickey took a deep breath, setting the envelope on the table, “I know.”

She wiped at her eyes, trying to take deep breaths to calm down, but it didn’t seem to be working, “I said I would die before I let him die. And he could have—”

“He didn’t,” Mickey said, trying his damnedest not to get caught up in this whirlwind. He’d been trying to push that away —the reality. It was real. It was something that could have happened. “He’s okay.”

“What if this happens… and I am not there?” Svetlana’s eyes went wide, tears falling down her cheeks. She shook her head, staring into Mickey’s eyes, repeating herself, “What if this happens and I am not there?”

He didn’t know how to handle this, but it’s like he went on autopilot. He grabbed her hands, holding them firmly. He can’t remember the last time he touched her, and it felt a little odd, “Ay, he’s okay. Look at me… Svet, he’s okay. He’s gonna be okay.”

She nodded, easing her hands out of his grip, which he was thankful for; Svetlana wiped at her face again, sniffling and holding back sobs, “I cannot protect him from everything. This hurts my heart, Mickey. You did not see his face when he w-was trying to b-breathe.”

He didn’t want to think about it, couldn't think about it, “He carry one of those shots with him?”

Svetlana nodded, “Yes, but he panicked when he got stung. Froze up.”

“Guaran-fucking-tee you that he won’t freeze up if it happens again,” Mickey managed a little, hopeful grin. But he felt his own eyes starting to sting, and a little voice in the back of his head was _screaming_ at him for the past twelve years, how he almost lost his son before he even attempted to make himself better.

He ran a hand over his mouth and sighed, kind of hating that he was slipping back into a hesitant comfort with Svetlana. Strange, what having your child put in a life-threatening situation will do, “M’gonna be better. Okay? Gonna fucking try.”

Svetlana nodded, “I know this is not for me—”

“You're right. This is not for you,” he confirmed.

“I will still thank you. For trying.” She was quiet for a few moments, collect herself, slowing her breathing down, “You know, I am not sorry for doing what I had to do, to look out for my child… but I am sorry that I hurt us. It was nice for a while, yes? Being friends.”

Mickey clenched his jaw, inhaling deep, exhaling slow, but he stayed quiet. Part of him was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d say something to start a fire, and the last thing he wanted to deal with right now was another round with Svetlana. He was already on the verge of a headache.

He was sorry that she fucked it all up too. And maybe one day they’d be okay again, but for now he just couldn't see it happening. She went out of her way to fuck with his life, getting in the middle of his business, could have potentially ruined everything with Ian. And he loved Ian. He fucking _loved_ him. 

He took the manilla envelope off of the kitchen table and stood from his chair, “I’ll take care of these.”

Svetlana just nodded quietly, drawing her legs up to her chest, looking small in her chair. He felt cold doing it, but he turned away from her and left.

 

—

 

Mickey sat there for a second, in Mandy’s passenger seat, when she finally pulled up to his building. They hadn’t talked the whole ride; mostly, he was trying to calm himself. It was reaching noon, but felt more like nighttime with everything that had happened. He felt completely drained.

“Mickey, I gotta talk to you about something,” Mandy said quietly.

He groaned, leaning his head back on the seat, “Fuck. Now?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s about work —well, me working.”

Mickey looked over at his sister and frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she sighed. “Preston’s offered me this position at his dad’s company… it’s an office managing position, and it’s kind of a good deal.”

Huh? Mickey shook his head, giving her an odd look, “Wait, are you serious? You’re fucking leaving us?”

Mandy rolled her eyes, “I didn’t say that. I said he offered me the job, and it’s a good deal. You know, salary, benefits… all that shit.”

“We got benefits,” Mickey said. “You get paid good, Mandy. You’re a part of this fucking… are you fucking serious right now? You’re leaving us?”

She exhaled sharply, “I haven’t ever been a part of the team, Mick. I’m good at what I do, but when it comes down to it, it’s the boys. The Milkovich boys —Milkovich and Sons. They go out of town and deal with shit, little Mandy stays back and—”

“And holds down the whole fucking operation by herself,” Mickey cut her off. His chest felt tight; he took a couple deep breaths, “Why are you… you’re gonna work in a cubicle for the rest of your fucking life? You want that shit?”

“I’d have an office.”

He snorted, “You have an office now.”

“Fuck you, you know it’s different,” Mandy shook her head. “Plus, it’s a clean job. Part of the dream, right? I can start working there, and in a year or so, get married to Preston, get a house together… couple of kids. Be a mom… then I wouldn’t even have to work anymore, because Preston banks. He’d take care of me.”

Mickey couldn’t even process this. He scrubbed at his scalp roughly, repeating his sister’s words over a few times in his head. “Since when have you wanted to be a fucking housewife, and have some douchebag North Sider take care of you?”

“Preston loves me,” Mandy said. “He’s a good guy, a smart choice.”

“So because he’s a smart choice, you’re just gonna fucking leave? Fuck, you do what you want Mandy… but this isn’t you,” Mickey felt like he was losing breath. Sure, he was fucking pissed this sister, but she couldn’t just leave like that. She kept getting further and further away, this was just taking one step out of the door, soon she’d be gone forever.

“You don’t know what I want,” Mandy said. “Why do you even care, you hate me.”

“I don’t—” Mickey shot back, but halted and quieted his voice. “I don’t fucking hate you. I’m pissed, I’m allowed to be pissed at you for what you did. I don’t hate you; you’re my sister, you’re part of this fucking family. Fuck!”

She was quiet for a few moments, looking down at the steering wheel. Mandy just stared at her. She needed to sleep or something; looked worn out. He’d feel like a piece of shit if she left, especially with how things are right now. Maybe it was selfish of him. But she stabbed him in the fucking back, she hurt him, and he was allowed to be fucking pissed. For as long as he wanted to be. Right?

Shit, what if she left to work for Preston? Preston. Mickey had thought he was alright because he was a good guy, but ever since Mandy got with him, she’d been changing. Now she was at the peak of that change. She was so close to gone. He was losing her. He didn't want to be that dick who made her feel guilty about bailing on the family, but he didn’t want her to fucking leave either.

“You do what you want, Mandy,” Mickey said, catching her attention. “But you don’t need some fucking guy to take care of you. You weren’t raised like that. You’re a Milkovich; and you’re my fucking sister —my sister doesn’t need anyone to take care of her.”

She wiped at her wet eyes and sighed, “Doesn’t he take care of you —Ian?”

“That’s different,” Mickey said.

“How?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but closed it back up. It just was, but he didn’t know how to explain it.It was just _different_.

“People change, Mick,” Mandy sighed. “You changed. I changed. You would have never been okay with someone taking care of you… but you are now. So, it’s not so different.”

“It _is_ different,” Mickey shook his head.

“Then tell me how,” she said. “Tell me how it’s different.”

“He doesn’t pay my fucking bills, first of all. He’s not trying to take me away from my family, he gives a shit about me—”

“Preston gives a shit about me. He’s a good guy who loves me. I’d be stupid to walk away from that”

“I don’t like this guy, Mands.”

“You liked him just fine before,” Mandy huffed a laugh and hit the unlock button on her door, “I’ll let you know what I decide to do.”

Mickey sighed heavily and opened the passenger door, “Sounds like you already made up your mind, so don’t fucking bother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also.... ao3 got rid of those line spacer things??? why..????
> 
> Happy Holidays! :))


	18. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Let's do it.
> 
> content warning: slurs.

Ian ran his fingers through Mickey’s hair; his head was in his lap, eyes closed, sprawled across the seat of the couch. He’d just came into the apartment, kissed Ian, and then laid down, not saying a word. So Ian let him be quiet, if that’s what he needed. He had a million questions after feeling an odd panic for a child he didn’t even know, but forced himself to keep them to himself, focusing his attention on just being there for his boyfriend.

Mickey’s brows were a little drawn together, mouth turned down. Ian just stared down at his boyfriend, trailing his fingertips through dark hair, over his temple, down his cheek. He couldn’t draw worth a shit, but if he could, Ian thought he’d be able to draw Mickey’s face by memory. After a few minutes of touching his face, Mickey seemed to relax a little, rubbing his cheek against Ian’s thigh.

The apartment was pretty quiet. Not a lot of noise filtered in from outside; Ian was thankful for that. He wasn’t sure how long they were there on the couch for, but after a while, Iansaw that Mickey had fallen asleep. So he gently eased his head off of his lap and moved him further towards the back of the couch, sliding in to lay next to him.

He accidentally woke him up while doing this, but Mickey just raised his arm, welcoming Ian to scoot closer to him. Ian pressed his lips to Mickey’s temple, then his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, his eyelids, his cheeks. Soft kisses; Ian didn’t really know why he did it, or what he was doing, but he knew he was on the right track when Mickey’s hand slid under the back of his shirt and his fingers started making lazy circles on his skin.

Mickey opened his eyes, staring into Ian’s. Soft. Quiet. And they just looked at each other for a while. Ian sighed softly when Mickey took his hand from under his shirt and laid it on the side of his face, his thumb brushing over the top of his cheek, before going back to where it was. Soft. Quiet.

“Coulda lost him today,” Mickey whispered, his eyes blinking a couple times.

Ian didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded, rubbing his hand up and down Mickey’s back.

“I wanna know him,” he continued, still at a whisper. “I wanna know my son. I wanna be ready.”

Ian nodded, kissing Mickey’s forehead again, then his lips, “I know.”

“I want you to know him too,” Mickey said.

Ian pulled his head back a little so he could see Mickey more clearly; his stomach did a little flutter, and suddenly it was a bit harder to think, “You do?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mickey frowned.

Ian grinned, brushing the backs of his fingers against Mickey’s hair, “Does he _know_ about you?”

Mickey got quiet for a minute, chewing on his bottom lip, “I dunno. I don’t think so.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say it.”

“Say what?”

Ian gave him a lopsided grin, leaning forward to press his lips against Mickey’s, “You know. That you’re one of them homosexuals.”

Mickey snorted, turning his head so he could press a kiss to Ian’s wrist, “ _You’re_ one of them homosexuals.”

“Yes I am,” Ian chuckled. “I just meant that if you wanted him to meet me… you might wanna let him in on knowing that you’re…” he lead, brows raising, seeing if he could get Mickey to say it.

“I know,” Mickey was back to chewing on his lip. “I don’t think I’ve ever said it.”

Ian shrugged, “Well, it’s just me and you in here, if you want to say it now, that’s cool. Maybe to practice.”

Mickey sighed and rolled his eyes, scooting back against the back of the couch a little more, “Practice.”

Ian nodded, “Mmhm.” Mickey’s starting to tense up in Ian’s arms, and he knows that he should back off a little; his boyfriend’s had a hard fucking day, after all. But there’s this part of Ian that just really wants to hear Mickey say it. 

He’s never said it to Ian, and Ian is pretty damn sure that he’s never said it to anyone else either. It’s just them, in a safe space. Just them. Ian waits, watches as Mickey breathes and looks right back at him.

Then Mickey huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes again, “Shit’s dumb, man.”

Of course. Ian surrenders an easy smile, ignoring the pang in his chest, “Okay.”

“I just don’t get why I have to fucking say it,” Mickey huffed, moving to sit up on the couch. “Why’s it matter?”

Ian winced, reaching for him, trying to pull him back down, “Wait —shit, c’mere… I’m sorry, okay? Come back down here, you don’t have to say it.”

Mickey sighed, looking down at him, “I need to shower. I got hospital stink all over me.”

Ian sat up next to him, reaching over to tangle their fingers together with one hand, the other hand’s fingers tracing over the FUCK letters. He didn’t understand why Mickey was fighting with saying just two words… but at the same time, he got it. Mickey didn’t have a good past with being who he was. It was probably terrifying to think about saying it out loud like that. 

“You want me to come with you?” Ian asked him.

“I’m just jumping in and out,” Mickey said quietly, leaning over to kiss Ian. It was nice, soft, kind of reassuring that they were okay. “Gotta head into the garage for a couple hours too; check on things.”

Ian nodded; he was going to go to the gym today anyways, “Alright.” He watched his boyfriend walk towards their bedroom, hand running over his jaw. “Hey, Mick?”

Mickey looked back at him, “Yeah?”

“I’m glad that Yev’s okay,” Ian said. He didn’t know what it was like to have a child, but he had three younger siblings, and if something like that had happened to one of them --shit, if something like that happened to _any_ of his siblings… he couldn’t even think about that without feeling his breath catch in his throat.

Mickey nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting a little, “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

It was almost a chore, going into the gym after seeing Mickey leaving and coming back after that kind of day, seeing how stressed he was. But he pushed himself to go. He ran on the treadmill for a long time, clearing his mind. It always helped him to just forget about the bullshit and run. After that, he kind of wanted to just go home, but it was a leg day and you _can’t_ skip leg day. 

So after another half an hour of leg exercises, Ian called it a day. He was feeling a little restless. Everything was piling on top of each other. Being in a “secret” relationship was fucking hard. He knew exactly what he was signing up for when all of this started, but it didn't change the fact that Ian couldn't go on a proper date with his boyfriend, or talk about his relationship with his sister without having to censor it, or go with Mickey to the fucking hospital when his son was in the emergency room. 

Mickey was worth it, but still, it was just kind of exhausting sometimes. It would get better though. Mickey was working hard on making changes to his family’s business… was almost finished with that whole mess. And Ian was so close to quitting escorting. Soon. It would be better soon. And that’s what really kept Ian steady, that’s what kept him going. Mickey was worth it, and the hiding shit was almost over. They’d be free.

When Ian was unlocking his car door… Chris called him. With a proposition,  “I got this offer, and I really think you should do it, man. Make you a fucking star."

Ian shook his head, getting into his car, “Huh?”

“This guy is offering a pretty penny to film your ass,” Chris clarified. “What do you think?”

He pulled a face, getting a bad taste in his mouth, “Jesus, are you talking about porn? No. I’m not doing that.”

Chris scoffed, “Why not? It’s good money, man. Just a one-time deal. You already get paid to fuck, it’s just adding a camera.”

“I’m not a fucking porn-star, Chris,” Ian sighed, turning his car on. “I don’t want to have my face out there in the world while I’m getting plowed by some juice-head.”

Chris sucked his teeth. “Think it over?”

“No,” Ian clenched his jaw, trying not to snap. “Chris, I’m saying no. I don’t want to do a porno, I don’t care how much money is on the table. Ask Cooper or something, _he’d_ be into that, I bet. Not me, I don’t do that.”

There was a pause, a sigh, “This got to do with Mickey?”

Ian ran a hand over his face. Honestly, Chris couldn’t have picked a worse fucking day for this shit; he couldn’t deal with this right now, “Well, _yeah_. But even if he wasn’t in the picture, I still wouldn’t do it.” 

Maybe a couple years ago, when he was going through some shit and rationalizing reckless impulses, he would have jumped on this opportunity. But now the thought of it just made him feel weird. Plus, _yeah_ , his boyfriend _did_ have something to do with it. He’d fucking _flip_ ; that would be a line that Ian probably wouldn't be able to cross back over. 

A fucking porno? Jesus Christ. Ian knew a couple of Chris’ guys did some webcam work here and there, and Chris had asked him about doing that before… and Ian still said no to _that_. So why the fuck would Chris think that a full-on movie would even be an option? Fuck.

Chris groaned, “You’re killing me, Ian. I’m losing you in a month, man. Throw me a bone here.”

“Let me guess, you were gonna cash out on this deal too?”

His boss laughed, “I would’ve been supplying the talent! Of course I would have cashed out on this. Just think about it for a couple days, alright? Let me know.”

“Still gonna be no.”

“Just think about it. You know, I’ve been real understanding about you giving it away for free, cutting my regular off like that.”

Ian felt the back of his neck heat up. “That’s not fair, Chris. I thought you were cool with me and Mickey? You’ve raised my fucking rate, I’m on a schedule… you’re making money still!”

“Yeah, but you _do_ realize that you’ve become a fucking high-maintenance little twink, right? You don’t kiss —actually you’ve _never_ kissed, you don’t let clients blow you, I’m lucky if I can get you to take it, anymore… you’re a fucking diva, Ian,” Chris drawled. “You owe me this. If it weren’t for me, your ass would still be in South Side.”

Ian shook his head, belly turning from Chris calling him that fucking word, again, like he always fucking did. “I don’t want to make a fucking porno, Chris. I’m _not_ doing it. I’m saying no.”

The other end of the line got real quiet for a minute. Ian swallowed hard; he was pissed, and wanted to scream. He wished he could just quit now. Just tell Chris to go fuck himself and quit now without worrying that the pimp would come after him. And he would. If Ian went back on their deal, Chris would come after him _real_ fucking hard.

“Don’t forget you have an appointment Friday night,” Chris finally said before he hung up.

Ian sat in his car for a few minutes, staring at his steering wheel. He tried taking deep breaths, he tried counting to ten, but he was still worked up. He fucking hated when Chris called him a twink —he didn’t do it in a harmless way; it wasn’t a little jokey thing that Chris threw out. Ian knew how his boss meant it —he meant it the same way all those other guys had meant it, when Ian was young and lost. Just a twink. Ginger twink. Pretty face, coked up twink. God, he hated it. He hated it so fucking much.

“One month,” Ian whispered to himself, clenching his fists hard in his lap. “One more month, just stick it out for one more month, then you’re done.”

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, Mickey was back at the apartment when Ian got home. He was set up at the kitchen table, on his laptop that he snapped closed as soon as Ian walked through the front door. Ian kept his eyes locked on Mickey as he dropped his keys onto the table in the entry hall, slowly walking towards his boyfriend.

“That wasn’t suspicious at all,” Ian arched a brow. Mickey sighed, picking up his laptop to head for the bedroom; Ian followed, “Uh, Mick?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Mickey said.

“I’d have to know what you don’t want to talk about, in order to not bring it up,” Ian crossed his arms under his chest, watching Mickey slip his laptop under the bed. “You know I don’t give a shit if you watch porn, right?”

Mickey stopped, turning towards Ian; he shook his head, “I wasn’t watching porn, dumbass.”

Ian cracked a grin, following his boyfriend back out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, “Then what were you doing?”

“I just fucking said I didn't wanna talk about it.”

Ian groaned, jumping up to sit on the counter, watching Mickey grab a beer out of the fridge, “ _You’re_ the dumbass if you think you can say that shit and not have me ask.”

Mickey quirked an eyebrow at him while he took a drink of his beer and strolled over to him, standing between Ian’s legs, “How was the gym?”

Ian didn't answer, just stared at Mickey. He felt like shit about it, because he was playing it off like he wasn't answering the question until Mickey explained what he didn't want to talk about, but the truth was he wasn’t sure if he should tell him about the conversation with Chris. 

They shared everything, didn't keep secrets like this, that was the deal —everything was out on the table. But this… Chris trying to get Ian to do a fucking porno? Fuck, that would have turned into World War Three, and would end with Mickey storming out of the apartment to hunt down Ian’s pimp. Yeah, not a good scenario.

Mickey seemed to fold, sighing heavily, putting his beer down on the counter, his hands resting on Ian’s knees, “I don’t want you to be an asshole about it.”

Ian’s brows raised high, “Nice.”

“I’m just saying,” Mickey shrugged, moving his hands up Ian’s thighs, grabbing his hips to pull him closer to the edge of the counter. “Don’t fucking laugh at me.”

“Who says I’m gonna laugh?” he huffed, feeling a weird pang in his belly; he wrapped his arms around Mickeys shoulders and leaned forward to kiss him softly. “Not gonna laugh.”

“It’s probably the lamest thing I’ve ever fucking done,” Mickey muttered against Ian’s mouth. “You’re gonna laugh… I was lookingup how to… uh, you know… bond or whatever the fuck, with Yev.”

That was one-hundred-percent the last thing that Ian was expecting to come out of his boyfriends mouth. He leaned back so he could see Mickey, brows creased in confusion, because honest to god, he wasn’t sure if he heard him right. 

“Say that again,” Ian cleared his throat. He clenched his jaw hard to stop from smiling —he didn't think it was funny, or stupid, nothing like that. It was… shit, it was actually fucking adorable. Unfortunately the corner of his mouth pulled up a little bit, and ruined the whole damn moment.

Mickey narrowed his eyes, cheeks flushing. He stepped away from Ian, grabbing his beer bottle, “Fuck you.”

Ian scrambled off the counter, grabbing at Mickey’s shoulder, “No, no, no —I wasn’t laughing, Mick! I just was not expecting you to say that, you took me off-guard.”

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” Mickey bit out at him.

Ian nodded, curling his hands around the back of Mickey’s neck, just looking into his eyes, “I know, babe —I know. I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t laughing, I promise.” Mickey stayed silent, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Did you find anything?”

“No,” Mickey murmured. “Nothing worth fuck-all, anyways.”

“Why don’t you just… take him and Svetlana out to dinner a couple times to start out?” Ian offered with a shrug; he slipped his hands from Mickey’s neck and shoved them into his pockets. “Neutral ground, take the stress off.”

“I don’t want to have dinner with her,” Mickey frowned.

Ian shrugged, “Well, it’ll be a lot easier to have her there as a buffer; she’s the link between the two of you.”

Mickey’s brows shot up, “So you’re saying I should just suck it up and fucking deal with it?”

“You wanna get to know your son?”

“Yeah.”

Ian nodded, “Then yeah. I know you’re still pissed at her, but you gotta work with her on this. She knows him, she knows shit you can’t look up online. Besides, that shit will just make you look like that lame dad who uses out-of-date slang to try to connect with the youths.”

Mickey snorted, “Yeah?”

Ian nodded again, “Oh yeah. You don’t wanna be that dad. You wanna be the _actual_ cool dad. But still no-bullshit.”

“So,” Mickey laughed, rolling his eyes. “A cool dad… but still kind of an asshole.”

“Exactly,” Ian grinned, grabbing Mickey’s hips. “Those are the best dads.”

“You like those dads?” Mickey arched a brow at him.

Ian laughed, “I _love_ those dads.”

“Please don’t say it.”

“I’m not going to, don’t worry,” Ian punched out a rough laugh, folding his arms around his boyfriend. He buried his face into his shoulder and breathed him in as Mickey wrapped his arms around his middle, pressing his face into Ian’s neck. “You smell good.”

“You smell like sweat,” Mickey said.

Ian dropped his hands to Mickey’s sides, digging his fingers in until the brunette laughed and jerked away from him, “Come take a shower with me.” He pulled him close again, nuzzling his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, pressing close to him, dropping light kisses across his skin.

"I just took one earlier."

Ian groaned a whine, "Mickey, please?"

“A’ight, come on princess,” Mickey gave Ian a shit-eating grin and turned away from him.

Ian pulled a face and reached out to slap Mickey’s ass. He wanted to play it that way? Alright, “Coming, _daddy_.”

“Ian!” Mickey warned, looking back at him, brows raised.

Ian laughed grabbing Mickey's hips from behind, pressing up against him as they walked; it made them walk awkwardly, and Mickey elbowed him in the stomach, but Ian didn't let go, "Am I grounded?"

"M'bout to cut your fucking tongue out," Mickey teased, reaching back to pinch Ian's side. "Fucker."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I don't know how it happened but did you see how close I got to daddy-kink? Skirted that line a little bit. Just, you know, touching it with my toe. That's honestly not even my thing, it just _happened_ lmao
> 
> **warning: i don't think spoilers, but just in case, I mention 6x01, so if you havent seen the early release episode, scroll by this**
> 
> .... alright?
> 
> Okay. Listen. I'm gonna keep writing fic, but I need to take a step back for like a week to just... idk cleanse my palette after watching 6x01. _Canon is dead, fic lives on, in my opinion._ If I ever write canon-ish fic again, and I'm not saying I'm going to, don't expect it to be nice  & fluffy. Barely expect the boys to get back together. Sorry, this might be because it's still fresh in my mind, but I just feel like shit right now about everything. So I'm gonna take a step back, regroup, then get back to work!
> 
> (next chap when I come back is a flashback, inspired by SparkleSpaz101 for planting that little seed in my head, so thanks babes!)
> 
> love you all Xx


	19. Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *flashback chapter woo!*
> 
> Content Warning…??: Considering this is a flashback centered around how Mickey and Ian first met, there’s basically just sex in this chapter. I honestly tried to make it not so pwp-ish… but it might be borderline gratuitous, idk. So just… be aware. Also there’s bottom!ian. I tried to avoid the over-and-over same thing, you know? You’ll see what I mean.

Ian stretched his back out as the elevator doors opened up at the sound of the ding. He was tired, the muscles in his back begging for a couple nights to just chill out. He’d worked nearly every night this week —thank god doing all the fucking, because Ian wasn't exactly a champ bottom.

He got to the room, knocked on the door, waited. Same thing every time. He stifled a yawn while he waited for the door to open. His stomach rumbled a little bit, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast —and those few pieces of watermelon he ate a couple hours ago. Normally he wasn’t so bad about eating, but today it just got away from him. He’d go by a drive-through or something on his way home, grab a couple burgers, load up, regret it in the morning. 

The door opened, and Ian’s brows raised. Fuck, he was beautiful. Young, too. Fuck, probably Ian’s age —when was the last time that happened? His client had on a nice all black suit; dark hair slicked back, blue eyes, tattoos scrawled across his knuckles, freckles _dusted_ all over his face. God, his eyes were _so_ blue.

“Mickey, right?” Ian asked, giving his new client a once-over. He couldn't wait to see what was going on under the suit. Maybe he’d actually enjoy this, his body was certainly flaring to life, his mind shooting off in a dozen different directions on how many ways he could get this guy to come. And that _mouth_. Fuck.

“I’m Ian.”

Mickey nodded, stepping out of the way so Ian could come in. Ian turned the game on as he walked past Mickey and stopped at the foot of the bed, watching the brunette close and lock the room door before joining him. 

Ian put on the bedroom eyes, the heated looks. It was easier when the client was this attractive and close to Ian’s own age. But Mickey didn't seem to be paying much attention to what Ian was doing, instead he was taking his jacket off, carefully laying it over the back of a chair.

“You want help?” Ian asked, reaching for Mickey, giving him a little grin.

Mickey stepped away from him, shaking his head, “No.”

“Alright,” Ian tilted his head to the side; so it was going to be like this, okay. “You want me to blow you?”

“No… just drop your fucking pants and bend over the bed,” Mickey grunted, pulling at his belt.

Ian paused for a second, trying to gather his words and gauge the situation (and honestly though, _of course_ this guy had to be a top; Ian couldn’t luck out and get a gorgeous —young— bottom client, could he?). Mickey was tense, stressed —his shoulders were tight, and so were his brows. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to fuck you?”

“Can’t take a dick?” Mickey arched his brows high at Ian. He sniffed and rubbed at his mouth. “I was told you could.”

“I can…” Ian frowned. 

“Okay then,” Mickey waved a hand towards the bed.

“Guess we’re just gonna _get this over with_ ,” Ian murmured under his breath, shrugging out of his jacket. Damn, he was kind of hoping to mess around a little bit, get to know Mickey better. It’s not often that Ian gets a client so close to his own age.

“You say something?”

Ian shook his head, giving Mickey a little grin before he took his shirt off and tossed it to the side, “Just that I like your suit. It’s sexy.”

Mickey hmm’d, watching Ian with those blue eyes looking him up and down. Focused and careful, like he was trying to decide something. He pulled a couple packets of lube and a condom out of his pocket, tossing them onto the bed.

“Chris gave you the run-down, right? No bruises, no hickeys —either one of us says stop, it stops— all that?” Ian asked, unbuckling his belt while he stood at the foot of the bed. “I can’t kiss either. Dunno if he told you that bit.”

Mickey nodded.

“And you passed your tests —gave Chris your papers; saw mine?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Mickey said, coming up behind him, waiting while Ian bent over for him and pushed his boxers and jeans down to his knees. He had a feeling this was not going to be a lay around after they were finished sort of deal. Guys like Mickey like to get in and out quick, don’t like to wait around and exchange pleasantries.

Ian couldn't see what was happening behind him, but judging by how Mickey ran his hand over the curve of his ass, it was a safe assumption that his client was checking him out. God, and his touch felt _really_ good. His hands weren’t necessarily soft, having light callouses, but it was still really nice, and Ian felt himself relaxing more. He held back a shiver.

He reached for the packets of lube, tossing one next to Ian’s head, “Here.”

Ian sighed, looking back over his shoulder, giving Mickey a slow smirk, “You sure you don’t wanna do it? Part of the fun.”

The brunette’s mouth twisted in a frown; he just shook his head, clearly not giving Ian more than the bare minimum. Ian huffed, trying to raise himself up, only to be gently pushed back down to where he was before, fingertips digging gently into his skin, silently telling him to stay there and do what he needed to do. 

Ian fought off the grin as his body sparked to life when he realized what was happening with his quiet client; he didn’t need anything explained to him. Ian knew how to flesh out a client quick, to pick up on things and put two and two together —anticipate needs, and all that. Even though Mickey was quiet, there was _something_ about him that told Ian that it wasn’t how he _really_ was (pretty common for first-time clients).

Just to be sure, Ian looked back at Mickey, wetting his lips, “You want to watch.”

Mickey eyes were that of a starving man who was willing to wait just a little longer for his supper. It was all there: he wanted Ian to work himself open bent over like that, so he could take him. He wanted Ian to want him —to work for it. Alright, nice play, pretty fucking hot. He could work with this. Fuck, when was the last time he put in some _real_ effort, huh —when was the last time he gave a shit, with a client?

The brunette had his hand dipped into the front of his boxers; damn, Ian wanted to see. All Mickey did was raise a single perfect eyebrow, like _yeah what the fuck else do you think I want_. Kind of a snarky bastard, for such a quiet guy. Ian kind of hoped that he’d get the chance to see how Mickey really was. Probably had a filthy mouth on him, with those perfect full lips. Fuck, they looked soft.

Mickey was hot and young, and Ian’s body was responding nicely to him. So he gave his client exactly what he wanted. He slicked up his fingers, and worked himself open —exaggerating the noises a little bit, because _this_ wasn’t totally Ian’s thing. But then the noises started to become more real when he heard Mickey’s breathing get heavier, hitching like he was getting himself off to Ian. He smiled, pressing his face into the bed, making a louder moaning noise, pushing away the slight burning stretch of his fingers, focusing on the part that felt good.

Clients always wanted Ian. He was a good looking guy, he knew this. He was always told how hot he was, how nice his cock was, all that shit. But Mickey wasn’t saying any of that. He was just _breathing_ , and _watching_ , and _wanting_. There was this tension in the air that had the same feeling of when you had something on the tip of your tongue, but didn’t know what it was. Ian could feel Mickey wanting to say something, but holding back, and just watching. _Fuck_ it was getting to him.

“Okay,” Ian panted, looking back at Mickey, easing his fingers out of himself. 

Mickey grabbed the condom wrapper, tearing it open with his teeth. It was weirdly sexy, and Ian chewed on the inside of his lip, taking measured breaths to keep in his relaxed state. Mickey used the other packet of lube to slick himself up, and he even dripped some more into Ian. What a gentleman.

When he felt Mickey press against him, Ian looked back, giving him the eyes, giving him a slow grin, “Gonna fuck me good?”

Mickey arched a brow at him, resting his hand on the small of Ian’s back, his other guiding himself, “You don’t gotta do that shit.”

“Alright,” Ian sighed, a pang of something in his gut, though he didn’t know exactly what it was —could have been disappointment. 

Mickey wouldn't play at all. Maybe he should be grateful though, most of the times clients tried to overcompensate, and it got to be too much. But… Mickey was probably Ian’s age and he was fucking _hot_ , so… no playing? _Fine_. Maybe he was wrong about Mickey; maybe Mickey really just wanted to get this over with, to quench the craving for now.

 

* * *

 

Ian saw Mickey the second time two weeks later —the third time another two weeks after that. Those visits went much the same as the first.

He’d be bent over the edge of the bed, fisting the comforter tightly as Mickey held onto his hips, pounding into him. The heavy slapping sound of flesh on flesh filled up the room, just barely masking the sounds of Ian’s grunting and heavy breathing. Mickey always stayed quiet as he fucked him; Ian wished he wouldn’t —he’d really would’ve liked to hear him, and he felt like he should probably stay pretty quiet also, so that’s what he did.

Even though Mickey was giving it to him hard, seeming to be working through some kind of demons, he wasn’t _reckless_ with Ian. He’d pause here and there, letting Ian catch his breath, running his hands over his skin, before going back to drilling into him. It was weirdly nice.

And even though bottoming wasn’t his thing, it _did_ feel good. Mickey knew how to fuck; the skills were all there, but the brunette was still holding something back. 

During their second session, Mickey pushed up _right_ against his prostate, direct and hard and _fuck yes_. Ian forgot himself for a moment, forgot that he was trying to stay quiet. He moaned loudly, gasping and keening for his client, “Fuck, right there… fuck, _fuck_! Oh my god, right there.” Behind him, he heard a little breathy laugh, and Ian grinned through another moan at that. He finally got _something_ out of Mickey. 

During the third session, there was a shift in the air. Like some sort of tension; Ian _really_ wanted to play with Mickey —didn’t know if it was because he wasn’t “allowed” to, or because he was so damn attractive, or a combination of the two. But fuck, he wanted to explore, and find all those spots that made his client fall apart. And he knew he was emitting that kind of tension, he _knew_ that Mickey could feel that too.

Then Mickey ran a hand up and down Ian’s spine while Ian got himself ready, bent over the bed yet again, and said, very quietly, “Slower.” And the _way_ he said it, that soft command, made Ian’s stomach curl up and flutter away.

He whined low, pushing up against his prostate, slowly moving his fingers in and out of himself, “Fuck. Like this?”

“Yeah, just like that,” Mickey breathed heavily, his short nails gliding down Ian’s back. “Good.”

Ian shuddered; it was completely involuntary. He went hot and knew his skin was probably going all pink, flushing. _Jesus_.

When Mickey started pressing into him, after Ian had finished getting himself ready, he breathed deep through the stretch. Mickey had his hand planted at the small of Ian’s back, pressing down gently as he worked himself in. Ian's dick was hard and pressed between himself and the bed, the backs of his thighs burning. He held onto the blanket and let his head fall between his shoulders, shuddering when Mickey’s hand moved up the length of his spine, then hooked over his shoulder, holding him still while he bottomed-out.

“Fuck,” Ian mouthed, barely making a sound. 

Mickey stayed still, holding deep inside him —hips pressed tightly against his ass, waiting for him to relax and adjust. “Fucking tight,” Mickey breathed. Ian almost missed it.

And then when Mickey started moving, after Ian had given him the go-ahead, and the burn had ceded away to something better, Ian spiraled. Mickey gave it to him slow, but deep, and hard, and it was kind of desperate, the way his client’s hand curled tightly around his shoulder, pulling him back. They way Mickey’s breathing got heavier and rougher.

So Ian didn’t hold back then; he couldn’t. It was good. Ian pressed his forehead tightly against his arm, the other reaching back and grabbing onto Mickey’s hip, pulling him closer, urging him on. He let himself open his mouth that time and moan, and keen, and _yes_ , and _fuck right there_ , and _so fucking good_.

Mickey fisted the back of Ian’s hair, holding him down, grunting and cursing roughly. He fucked into him faster, telling Ian, “Touch yourself, come for me.”

God, that soft command, that thrill Ian got crawling up his spine from his client saying those words; Ian did what he was told, wedging his hand between himself and the bed, fucking his hand while he got fucked.

Fuck, it was good.

 

* * *

 

And then the fourth visit. Only a week later. 

Mickey hadn’t been in a suit, he was in jeans and a worn-in shirt with the sleeves cut off, cigarette hanging from his lips when he answered the hotel room door. He looked good. He looked really fucking good —he was also barefoot, which was somehow so fucking cute.

Ian gave him a slow grin. Mickey’s blue eyes traveled up and down his body, blatantly checking him out. And the back of Ian’s neck went warm from it, because Mickey seemed… kind of chill. Kind of relaxed. He’d never looked at Ian like that before; it was like he was _really_ looking for the first time, and suddenly Ian felt weirdly self-conscious. Did he look okay? Ian never worried about that shit before, but the way Mickey looked at him now… damn. It was like someone flipped a switch.

“Hey,” Ian said, coming into the room, shrugging his jacket off.

Mickey gave him a nod, walking deeper into the hotel room, towards that little table in the corner. He sat in one of the chairs and motioned for Ian to join him. With a slight pause, Ian put his jacket on the dresser and sat in the other chair.

“You smoke?” Mickey asked him, holding out his pack.

Ian nodded, taking one; Mickey flicked a lighter on and held it out for Ian to use, so he did. “Thanks,” Ian said carefully, pulling on his cigarette.

Another nod from Mickey. They just sat there for a little while while they smoked. Ian’s shoulders relaxed; he sunk down in his chair a little bit, was peering over at Mickey, who was… still checking him out. Just sitting there in his chair, smoking, eyes absorbing every inch of Ian. Not a shame in the world, completely unapologetic. It was fucking sexy. Ian thought Mickey was beautiful the second he first saw him, but it really hit him in the gut just then. 

Mickey stubbed his cigarette out in the little glass ashtray on the table, “You got rubbers?”

If Ian were a dog, his ears would have stood straight up, “Hm?”

“Do you have rubbers?” Mickey repeated himself, slowly this time, brows arched. He got up from his chair and went to the dresser, taking things out of his jean pockets —keys, wallet, spare change.

“Yes,” Ian nodded, stubbing his cigarette out while he kept his eyes on Mickey. Holy fuck, was this happening? “Yes, I have them.”

Mickey looked over at him, taking a deep breath, “You good to fuck tonight?”

“You want me to fuck you?” Ian asked dumbly.

That got a little crack of a smile; Mickey’s white teeth glinted at Ian for a split second, like he was amused as fuck that Ian wasn’t _totally_ picking up what he was putting down. He turned around and leaned back against the dresser, arms folded under his chest. “Yeah. Unless you’re not up for it, firecrotch, and you’d rather I bend you over that bed again.”

Ian smirked, getting up from his chair, loving that they were talking —flirting, _whatever this was_ , it was getting him going. Ian wanted to _play_ , begged whatever higher being there was to let him play. He went to Mickey, resting his hands on the dresser on either side of his client, caging him in, “I’m very up for it.”

Mickey moved from between Ian and the dresser, making his way to the bed, but his eyes lit up when he glanced back at Ian, “Guess we’ll see.”

Ian followed Mickey to the bed like a lost puppy, reaching out for the brunette’s shirt, gently tugging it over his head, wanting to see that pale skin right in front of him, wanting to touch. Mickey stayed silent, letting Ian undress him, watching him like he was carefully evaluating Ian’s game.

“You’re beautiful,” Ian breathed, fingertips trailing down Mickey’s pale chest. Solid —hard under soft; perfect. Real.

Mickey sighed, “I told you, you don’t have to do that shit.”

Ian shook his had, touching the cool metal of Mickey’s belt buckle, “I want to.” 

They undressed down to their boxers fairly quickly (Ian pausing for a moment to get his lube out of his jeans and condom out of his wallet to set on the nightstand), getting onto the bed —Mickey on his back with Ian hovering over him, just looking down at him for a moment. His skin was on fire, having his client like this, legs spread to either side of Ian’s hips, blue eyes intensely focused, but still careful.

“This okay?” Ian asked.

Mickey nodded.

He was careful still as he bent down and pressed his lips to Mickey’s chest, kissing the warm skin, tasting it slowly with his tongue, drawing out what sounded like a sigh of relief from his client. It felt good to hear that, to hear Mickey relaxing. Ian slid down the bed and trailed his lips down with him.

“Tell me what you want,” Ian said against his skin; he licked a slow line above the band of Mickey’s boxers. “Tell me everything. Gonna make you feel so good —wanna show you what I can do for you.”

Mickey arched under him, and when Ian felt fingers brush into his hair, he groaned. He curled his fingers around the band of Mickey’s boxers and started pulling on them, wanting to play —needing to play. He’d only felt Mickey, hadn’t seen him or touched him yet, but his client was tenting his boxers, straining against the thin material and holy fuck, Ian wanted it. But before he could tug them down, Mickey stilled his hands.

“It’s fine,” Mickey panted, looking down at him. “Don’t gotta do that. We can just bang, it’s fine.”

“You keep saying that,” Ian frowned. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t… I just thought you’d like it. Don’t you want me to make you feel good?”

Mickey took a deep breath, “I don’t want you to, you know, do shit you don’t wanna do.”

Oh. Ian’s brows lifted, a little butterfly springing to life in his belly, “I want to,” he said. He slowly crawled up Mickey’s body, pinning his hands down onto the bed, on either side of his head, looking down into blue eyes that were wide and focused. “I want you.”

“Yeah?” Mickey swallowed hard, his legs opening up a little wider for Ian. That’s when Ian realized that this whole _Ian wanting to do this_ was more important to Mickey than he originally thought. Honestly, it was kind of a turn-on, and kind of refreshing that Mickey only wanted Ian doing things that he wanted to do. Hard to find clients like that sometimes.

“Yeah,” Ian nodded, pushing down against Mickey, pressing their erections together. The two thin layers of cotton separating them suddenly felt like a foot’s worth of wool, “Wanna touch you —taste you. So tell me what you want; tell me what makes you feel good.” 

Mickey’s pupils were blown out; he wet his lips, “Want you to fuck me.”

Low bedroom voice, heavy eyes; Ian pushed against him again, “You _love_ to be fucked, huh —you like taking it more than giving it.” Mickey nods, breath uneven. Ian bent down to press his lips to the base of Mickey’s throat, still holding him down against the mattress. “How do you like to be fucked, Mickey? I can give you what you need.”

“Hard,” Mickey breathed, arching into Ian, pressing their chests together, his knees bending, caging Ian’s hips. “Don’t wanna think right now.”

Ian moves his lips to the other side of Mickey’s neck, “Can you take all of me?”

“Yeah,” his client is breathless, rocking under him, so responsive; Ian’s getting so turned on from this, leaking on the inside of his boxers as he moves against Mickey.

“I bet you can,” Ian releases one of Mickey’s hands, slipping his arm under his client, pulling him up so their bodies are flush. He slips his hand down to grab at Mickey’s ass while he skims his teeth along Mickey’s jaw, “I bet you take it so fucking good.”

Mickey’s free hand buries into Ian’s hair, fisting it tightly, keeping him where he is —tasting and kissing this jaw and neck, which gives Ian goosebumbs as he moans, rocking against him, gently sucking at Mickey’s skin. He feels so good, fuck he just feels _so_ good. Ian hasn't fucked someone _for fun_ in a long time, so he decided that he was going to let himself enjoy this.

“Fuck,” Mickey pants.

Ian grins, detangling from his client and sitting back up, dragging his hands down Mickey’s chest and abdomen as he does. He hooks his fingers in the band of his boxers, “I’ll take care of you real good, Mickey. Is that okay?”

Mickey takes moment to catch his breath before he answers, “Yes.” 

Ian can see the dozens —hundreds, _thousands_ — of thoughts swimming behind those blown-out blue eyes. Mickey’s got a weight on his shoulders —a demon in him, tearing him up inside. Ian sees it —he’s seen guys like Mickey before, he knows that look. He doesn’t know a thing about his client, but he wants to make it all go away. He genuinely wants this for Mickey, and it’s such an odd feeling.

Ian hums softly when he gets Mickey’s boxers off. He was steadily thickening, was fucking beautiful —Ian settles between Mickey’s legs so he can get to work, taking his client’s cock in his hand, just gently holding him, feeling and watching him harden up completely. 

Ian glances up at Mickey, who’s panting and fallen back, staring up at the ceiling. So he strokes him a couple times, slow, barely any pressure. He kisses the insides of Mickey’s thighs as he does this, working his way up. Mickey’s sensitive there; his legs tremble and his breath catches in his throat. Ian likes that, draws it out more, kissing and scraping his teeth against the soft flesh, breathing hard against him. 

And Mickey’s arching, breath ragged, squirming where he lays. Ian gets off on it, wants more, teases more, still lazily stroking Mickey’s cock as he plays, swipes his thumb over his leaking slit, earning a louder, harsher breath. He wants to hear it, wants more from his client. So he takes him into his mouth, finally, working his lips down, tasting every inch.

“Shit,” Mickey hisses softly, hips rocking upwards, legs widening a little bit more. He’s hot and heavy in Ian’s mouth; Ian hums softly, eyes closing, moving so he can take him deeper, wanting to take as much as he can. He likes the feel of Mickey in his mouth, the way his lips stretch around him; can feel his own cock straining almost painfully inside his boxers.

“Like that,” Mickey murmurs while Ian swallows him down over and over, bobbing his head. He feels his client’s fingers fist into his hair, and it makes him moan around him. “Look at me,” Mickey says.

Ian opens his eyes, looking up into blue ones. He moans again, seeing how fucked Mickey is right now. Flushed, brows creased, mouth slack, chest heaving, propped up on one elbow so he can see what Ian’s doing. Goddamn.

Mickey reaches over to the nightstand and grabs the lube and condom, tossing them down to Ian, “Here, get on me. I’m already ready.”

Ian feels his body tighten up at Mickey’s words. Already ready for him? Fuck, that was actually… really hot. He pulls off of Mickey and smirks at him, one last long lick, base to tip, making Mickey shudder, eyes closing tight. When the brunette turns over, raising to his hands and knees, it takes everything in Ian not to just put his mouth all over his client’s ass; its perfect and thick, and  _seriously_ he cannot wait to be buried inside of that. 

He pushes his boxers down so he can put his condom on then uncaps his lube, slicking himself up, not taking his eyes off of that perfect ass.  God, what would it look like all marked up? Mickey probably bruised so easily and prettily. Ian had a thing about that, he liked to feel that sting on his hand, even liked to have his own ass beat. He couldn't have that done to him anymore, but still, thinking about it sent a thrill up his spine.

Even though Mickey says he’s ready, Ian uses the lube left on his fingers to make sure. His client exhales slow as Ian teases him, pushing inside him with one finger, then two. He grins, slowly fucking him with his fingers, searching out for that sweet spot; Mickey is so ready for him, shuddering and pushing back against his hand.

When Ian first pushes into him until he bottoms-out… he can’t even think, can’t stop staring at where their bodies are connected. He moans, gripping Mickey’s hips, just holding deep inside of his client, waiting for him to let him know he’s okay. When that time comes, when Mickey breathes out and pushes back against him, and lets him know he’s good, Ian takes care of his client like he said he would.

And finally Mickey gives Ian what he’s been wanting. Ian fucks him hard and deep, holding his hip with one hand, the other reaching up to fist into dark hair. He pulls him back like this as he thrusts into him, and Mickey loves it —he punches out these rough, primal grunts, and grabs savagely at the blanket under them. He curses viciously and says shit like _good, so fucking good_ and _right there, don’t stop_.

It effects Ian more than he thought it would. Mickey urges him on, tells him how good he’s fucking him… god it’s so hot. It makes Ian want to already go another round before they’ve even finished this one. Every time he pushes into his client, he can’t hold back the noises. He feels amazing. Takes it so good, just like he thought he would.

Before Ian can reach under Mickey to jerk him off, the brunette is already way ahead of him. Ian grins, focusing on the breaths and grunts, focusing on getting Mickey to come first, he has to come first, that’s the deal. 

“Ah fuck,” Ian hissed when Mickey tightened up around him. He let his tight grip on his hair go and moved his hand to the middle of Mickey’s back, pushing him down onto the mattress, holding him there. Fuck, he had to come, he could feel lit building up from his toes.

“Fuck, like that,” Mickey panted, pressing the side of his face against the mattress. “Yeah, yeah like that.”

Ian wet his lips and pistoned into Mickey, “Gonna come for me while I hold you down like this? You like that?”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah —yeah. S'fucking good.”

“Take it so… good, _knew_ you’d… take it good,” Ian grabbed Mickey’s free hand and twisted it behind his back, “You like this?” Again, Mickey nodded, breathing out a yes. “Come for me.”

And Mickey did; and it was fucking amazing, watching him like that, completely fucking falling apart under Ian, shaking and moaning against the bed. It sent Ian over the edge, and he fell on top of Mickey, gasping and breathing his client in. Fuck, he smelled so good. He pressed his forehead between Mickey’s shoulders for a second to get his bearings, and then eased out of him and rolled to the side.

“Jesus,” Ian breathed, his body sparking and tingling all over.

He didn’t know how long they laid there, but it seemed both like seconds and hours before Mickey was getting off the bed and getting dressed again. Ian pulled his boxers up as he sat on the edge of the bed, watching his client, the way his muscles moved under his skin. Fuck, he wanted him again, already. 

“Well?” Ian grinned brows arching a little.

Mickey looked back at him and gave him an amused smirk, “You want a gold star or something?”

He shrugged, heat spreading up his back, “Just seeing if it was okay.”

“It was,” Mickey cleared his throat and reached into his pocket, walking over to Ian, handing him a white envelope. “Did good,” he added quietly, looking down into Ian’s eyes. 

Ian’s stomach flipped a little; he took the envelope and nodded, “Good.” He’s not exactly sure why he did it, but he reached out and skimmed the outside of Mickey’s thigh with the palm of his hand, feeling the texture of the denim, the body heat of his client under the clothes. “Could go again, if you want.”

For another moment, Mickey seemed to let his guard down. He reached out and pushed a piece of Ian’s hair out of his eyes before he took a step back, “Gotta be somewhere.”

Ian nodded, “There gonna be a next time?”

Mickey smirked, plucking a cigarette from his pack; he lit up, pulled on it while keeping his eyes on Ian, “Yeah. When I got time, you know?”

He couldn’t hold the grin back as he stood, picking his clothes up to redress himself, “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon is dead. Fic lives on. -this is just gonna be my new thing lmao


	20. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves. And heads up, POV switching during the chapter
> 
> Alternate Chapter Title: "Slight Deus Ex Machina" (lmao)
> 
> [Long notes at end of chapter.]
> 
> -
> 
> Spoilery Content warning: ~~non-consensual video taping~~

He was a little shaky. The muscles in his legs a little weak, his back was achy, even his scalp was a bit tender from his hair being pulled. Ian couldn't remember the last time he’d put in that much effort for a client. The guy was attractive, young… _very_ enthusiastic. 

As Ian pulled his pants back on, he glanced over at the blonde guy, who was messing around with his backpack on the dresser. It was quiet in the room, oddly quiet. And Ian didn’t really understand why, but he felt a little uncomfortable. Something hung in the air besides the smell of sweat and sex.

His client turned back towards him, giving him a grin, handing him a stuffed envelope —more money than Ian normally got from an appointment, at least double. To be fair, they’d gone a couple rounds, even switched —maybe he’d worked that out with Chris already. Ian wasn’t exactly on steady ground with Chris since they last spoke; had a somewhat tense conversation before Ian went into the hotel.

“Thanks,” his client said.

Ian nodded, taking the envelope, but stayed quiet. He couldn't put his finger on what was wrong with him, he just felt… fuck, what was wrong? It wasn’t bipolar-related, he could tell. That felt _different_ , that was something he could name. But this… weird unease, wanting to shower and curl up and sleep and not have anyone touch him. What the fuck was wrong with him?

He didn't do anything he didn't _want_ to. He was, he guessed, into it. Maybe it was starting to get to him more, fucking guys for money while having a boyfriend —while being in love with someone, not wanting to have sex with anyone else but the person he was in love with. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was guilt or shame. That made sense.

His client —what was his name, Jake? Tim? God, he couldn’t remember, he was too distracted right now— winked at him, gave his shoulder a little squeeze, “You could make a serious name for yourself, you know?”

Ian frowned, “What?”

The blonde grinned, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder, “Porn.”

Ian’s mouth went dry, stomach dropping, “What… are you talking about?”

His client winked again, but didn’t respond, just fucking left. Just… _left_. 

And Ian was frozen there in the hotel room, alone, so fucking quiet, sinking to sit back down on the bed as all the _painfully_ obvious pieces fell together. Pieces he should have fucking seen instead of just trying to get it over with, instead of trying to just… move it along.

The backpack. The young tattooed guy —too pretty, too in shape, too enthusiastic. Oh shit. Chris wouldn't set him up like that though, would he? Ian dropped the envelope of cash on the floor, hands going straight into his hair; he felt sick. Chris set him up.

He ran to the bathroom, falling to his knees in front of the toilet. He threw up. And then he threw up again. Chris fucking set him up. He should have seen that shit coming from a mile away, how did he not see that?

Ian scrambled out of his clothes and climbed into the hotel shower, turning the water on. It was freezing, pelting down on him heavily, ice cold water. He turned it to hot and waited, tried to breathe, tried to calm down. When the water got too hot, he turned it a little cooler, but not too much. 

He scrubbed himself down. And then again. And again. His eyes were stinging from holding back tears. He wanted it _off_ , he wanted the sweat off of him, the blonde guy’s smell, the last hour, he wanted it off of his skin. Ian threw the little bar of hotel soap to the floor of the tub and cursed loudly, pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the shower, stopping before he hurt himself from scrubbing too hard. He had to calm down before he went overboard.

But Chris… he should have seen it. He should have paid attention to what was happening… fuck! Chris would do almost _anything_ for a fucking pay-out. He was a lot of things but Ian never considered he’d go behind his back like this and fucking _record_ him.

Mickey was going to freak out. God, he should have told him. But after that day at the hospital… everything was so fucked up now. God, why? Ian just needed to catch a break, he didn't want this to ruin him and Mickey. 

That’s when he almost lost it. That’s when it got a little hard to breathe and he clenched his fists tightly at his sides, pushing his forehead against the tile wall harder. Should have told him! Should have fucking told him!

He didn’t know how long he was in the shower for, but when he got out, he looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head. He scrubbed the hell out of himself, pink skin, red in some places. He felt tender all over; drying off with the towel hurt, but he didn't know if it _actually_ hurt or if it was in his head. Fuck.

His phone rang. He knew it was Mickey. He didn’t answer it, because he knew if he did, Mickey would immediately catch on to the fact that something was wrong. And Ian didn't know what to tell him —how to tell him. So he ignored his boyfriend’s call, feeling sick again.

Ian got dressed, picked up the envelope of money, and then he left. God, he should have knocked that blonde douchebag out. He went through a series of _shoulda done this_ and _shoulda done that_ as he took the elevator down and left the hotel building. But he’d froze up, deer in fucking headlights, froze up.

Chris’ SUV wasn’t across the street. 

Ian shook his head, digging his cell phone out of his pocket and called his pimp. “What the _fuck_ , Chris,” he hissed into the phone when it picked up.

“Easy, Ian,” Chris’ voice tried to calm him.

Ian started walking, shaking his head, “You fucking set me up! How could you fucking do that to me? You set me up!”

“You need to relax,” Chris said. “What I set you up with was a nice fucking pay-day.”

“I. Said. No,” Ian gritted out, turning a corner; he had no idea where the fuck he was going. His whole body was white-hot angry, and he left his filter behind about a block ago. “I said no! I said I didn’t want to do that shit, and you set me up! Fuck you!”

“You better watch yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Ian said again. “I’m done, Chris. I’m fucking done.”

“You still got three—“

“I’m DONE Chris,” Ian cut him off. “I sat there and said _several_ fucking times NO. I said NO! And you went behind my fucking back, without my fucking permission… fuck you! I’m fucking done with working for you, I’m done with you.”

Chris was yelling something on the other line, but Ian hung up; he stopped walking and took deep breath, rubbing harshly at his eyes. He stopped in front of a bar, smiling patrons walking out, dressed fairly nice. He shouldn’t. He doesn't drink anymore.

“Fuck it,” Ian murmured, heading into the bar.

 

* * *

 

As Mandy was slipping her wallet back into her purse, waving goodbye to a prospective client (needed some product moved, not a _huge_ deal but the guy had expensive tastes and a reputation for liking to be wined and dined before a business deal — _whatever_ ) she paused, head tilting to the side. Mickey’s boyfriend was sitting at the bar, a glass in front of him that looked like he hadn't touched it, he was just staring at it, frown on his face. It looked like whiskey. 

It was such an odd sight —was Mickey here too? She looked around, not seeing any sign of her brother. So she took a deep breath, looking around the bar one more time, trying to decide if she should just steer clear. She’d done enough damage, right? But the thing about Mandy is that she has a habit of putting her nose into other people’s business, so instead of leaving, she made her way towards where Ian sat.

“Hey,” Mandy slid onto the stool next to him, leaning her elbow on the bar.

Ian looked over at her and huffed a laugh, shaking his head, “Of course.”

“You okay?” she asked, ignoring his obvious attempts to push her away.

He shrugged, lifting his shoulders high once and letting them drop. “Alcohol isn’t good for me,” he said, not looking at her, voice flat like he really didn't care about what was coming out of his mouth. “You see... I’m bipolar, and when I drink, it fucks with my meds… I drink one beer and I’m wasted. I’ve never drank hard liquor on my meds before. Kinda scared.”

“Then don’t do it,” Mandy said. 

He finally looked back over at her, “Why do you care?”

Mandy sighed, “Because my brother loves you, and I’m sure whatever is going on with you right now… it’s not worth putting your health at risk over.”

He was quiet for a while, staring down at his glass, still not touching it. Mandy almost thought maybe she should leave him be, but something didn't feel right about that, so she stayed. Eventually, Ian slid the glass towards her and put his elbows on top of the bar, head in his hands.

Carefully, she reached out and rested her hand on his back, between his shoulders, rubbing a circle there; just felt like something she should do. He folded his arms on top of the bar and looked over at her, giving her a lopsided sort-of smile. It only lasted a second though before his eyes got glassy.

“Are you okay?” she asked him again.

Ian just barely shook his head, again looking like he’d given up all attempts at putting up a front. It was heart-breaking. “Not really,” he said.

“Something with Mickey?” She asked.

Ian breathed out slow, “Gonna be.”

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Mandy shrugged helplessly, slipping her hand off of his back. God, he looked the the physical embodiment of both stress and surrender right now. Ian was a really attractive guy, but right now… shit, what happened to him?

“You’ll have to excuse me for not really trusting you with my personal life,” Ian sighed. “No offense.”

Mandy nodded in understanding, “I havent really given you a reason to trust me.”

He was quiet again for a few minutes. Mandy knocked his whiskey back, because it was just sitting there. Then he said, “I’m in a situation where I don’t know what to do. And I’m kinda freaking the fuck out that Mickey’s gonna leave me because of it.”

She frowned, “Did something happen… with work?”

He nodded. Her gut twisted, going to the worst case scenario she could imagine, “Jesus, Ian, if someone hurt you—”

“No one hurt me,” Ian interrupted, shaking his head. “Not really. Not like _that_ anyways.”

She exhaled a breath of relief and nodded, “Okay well, Mickey wouldn’t leave you if something like that ever happened. You know that, right? Not to put that out there…”

“I know what you mean,” Ian nodded. “And I know he wouldn’t.”

“I understand that you have no reason to trust me. I did something shitty and I’m sorry about that, okay? Truly, I am. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I can’t take it back. Whatever it is that’s going on with you… maybe I can help.”

“For me, or for Mickey?” Ian asked her, looking at the bar top.

“Both,” Mandy replied honestly. “I’ll do you the favor of not insulting you and saying that me trying to help you isn’tpartially because I’m trying to get on my brothers good side.”

He breathed a laugh, nodding, “Thanks.”

“But I _do_ think you’re a good guy. And I _am_ sorry that I kind of ambushed you with Svetlana —I’d like to help, if I can, if you’d be okay with that. Because if my brother loves you, you must be some kind of special… and maybe one day me and you could be okay.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment as she watched his lips press together, considering what she said, taking a minute for it to soak in. Finally he said, “Okay.”

“What happened with work?”

Ian took a deep breath, sat up, turned more towards Mandy, and nodded. It was such a Hail-Mary type of nod. Cards on the table, _I have no options here, I am at the end of my line_ kind of nod. “The day that Yev got stung, and all that shit was happening… Chris called me with this offer to do a _movie_ , you know?”

Mandy nodded, not liking where this was going, “Okay.”

“I said no,” Ian continued. “I said no… _many_ times. And he was pissed about it. But I thought that was that, you know? I didn’t tell Mickey because he’d hard a hard day and I didn’t wanna load more shit onto his plate. And I thought I’d taken care of it, so… no harm no foul.”

Yeah, she was _really_ not liking where this was going, “What did Chris do?”

“He set me up; I didn’t know I was being recorded. And now there’s a video of me… working. And I don’t know what the fuck to do,” Ian ran a hand over his hair. “I never told Mickey. He’s gonna fucking leave me.”

Mandy shook her head, “No he’s not.”

“Mandy, we don’t lie to each other. We don’t keep shit from each other. I kept something really big from him, and I thought that I had it handled. And he’s called me like four times since I got off work and I’ve been too fucked up over this to answer—”

“He’s not going to leave you,” she said. Her brain was already making a series of plans, Milkovich blood pumping hot and angry. Who does that shit? What kind of sick fuck records someone without them knowing? 

“You don’t know that,” Ian sighed.

Mandy smirked, “Yes I do. Mickey doesn't half-ass anything. He goes in with everything he has. He might stumble around here and there, but I know my brother. The two of your will get through this, and you’ll be okay.”

Ian ran a hand over his face and sighed, resigned.

“I’m going to take care of this,” she told him.

Ian snorted a laugh, shaking his head, “Jesus, you sound just like him. Listen, I appreciate you wanting to help. But honestly, this is my problem —I should be the one to fix it.”

“Do you have a plan?”

Ian didn’t answer.

Mandy took a deep breath and waved the bartender over as she spoke to Ian, letting him know how things were done, “You’re family now, you’re in the circle, and we take care of our own. This is what being a Milkovich means, okay?” She turned to the bartender, “—can I get another one of these? Thanks—“ then back to Ian, “So what I’m going to need you to do is go back to Mickey’s and wait. I’ll only be like an hour, maybe two.”

Ian’s mouth hung open as he stared at her, “What?”

Mandy arched a brow at Ian, pulling money out of her wallet and exchanging her drink with it. “I’m going to make it go away,” she explained.

“You mean… Chris? Make him go away?”

Mandy knocked her whiskey back and tried her damnedest not to laugh. Fuck, he was adorable, “No… the video. I’m going to take care of it before Mickey takes care of it. If _Mickey_ takes care of it… bad shit will happen. As much as the world would be a better place without Chris… not really a good idea.”

Ian swallowed, “I don’t really know what to say right now. This is really strange.”

She nodded, because it _was_ very strange, “I _am_ sorry, you know? For pulling that shit. I’ve been been having issues with my brothers and you got caught up in that.”

“You were looking out for him.”

“Yeah, but… my problems with my brothers got in the way of what I _thought_ I was trying to do… and I fucked it all up. I didn’t think, and I hurt him —and I hurt _you_. So I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that Chris did that to you. That’s so fucking wrong. I hope to god you’re not still gonna work for him.”

Ian shook his head, “I’m done.”

“Good,” Mandy nodded. Ian was a sweet guy. How he got caught up with hooking, she’d never know. Easy money, she supposed. She saw what Mickey liked about him though. He was all warmth and he was beautiful and was just… someone you wanted to love and have love you back. She understood. “Don’t tell Mickey anything until I get there, okay? Probably best to have everything taken care of before he knows.”

“You’re going now?” Ian asked, eyes wide.

Mandy nodded, “Of course. You’re family —top priority.”

He just stared at her for a moment before he nodded back, eyes going a little glassy again, “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Mandy said. And it was the truth. “I owe you this. And you don’t deserve what happened to you. No one deserves that. So I’m going to make it go away before Chris can do anything with it. But I gotta go now.”

Part of this was selfish, yes. She wanted to get back into Mickey’s good graces and how better to do that then to help Ian when he needed it? But, oddly enough, the bigger reason for doing this was because Ian needed someone to dig him out of this. It was a serious violation, what Chris did. And the thought of someone setting that up made Mandy fucking sick to her stomach. It wasn’t right.

 

* * *

 

Mandy took one last pull of her cigarette before dropping it to the ground and stomping it out. She made her way inside the apartment building, rode the elevator up to the tenth floor, got off, and found Chris’ apartment fairly easily.

The internet was a blessing sometimes —finding people, and whatnot.

Mandy knocked heavily on the front door, pulling her jacket close to her chest as she waited. A few seconds later, the door opened. “Can I help you?” the man asked, brow arching, obviously annoyed because _honestly_ it was way too late to be knocking on doors.

But Mandy just smiled big, “Chris Hearn?”

He nodded.

Mandy nodded back. She hadn’t done this in a while, but you aren’t raised by Terry Milkovich and forget how to shake someone down. She shoved her way in, ignoring Chris’ protests and cursing. She shut the door behind her, pushing him further into the apartment as she reached inside her jacket and drew out the sawed-off, cocked it, then jammed it under Chris’ chin.

“You messed with the wrong guy,” she told him.

“What the fuck!?” Chris squeaked, hands immediately going up in surrender.

“I know what you did, you piece of shit. Did you forget who Ian is dating?” Mandy asked him with a humorless laugh. “Did you forget who Mickey Milkovich is —better yet, do you _realize_ how lucky you are that _Mickey_ isn't the one knocking on your door at one in the fucking morning?”

He just whimpered. For a big guy, he was looking awful small and pathetic. Mandy knew she did that though. Her father was a piece of shit and she hated him —glad he was dead, to be honest— but being raised by that prick helped her learn a thing or two. One of those things was the ability to make men want to piss themselves… the shotgun didn't hurt, either.

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” Mandy said. “Recording someone without their permission —who fucking does that? It’s twenty-sixteen, fuckhead. Grow up.”

Chris shook his head, swallowing hard, “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Probably a good idea not to lie to someone who’s holding a gun under your chin, _Chris_ ,” Mandy sighed, pushing him against the wall behind him. “I’ll blow your brains out all over this fucking apartment if you don’t give me the tape — _and_ any copies you already made. Now.”

Chris frowned, “Why do you think I have—”

“Don’t lie to me, I’m not lying to you,” Mandy said slowly. “I know shitheads like you. You couldn't get Ian on a set, so I’m thinking you got someone to put a fucking camera in their backpack and record them fucking. You were gonna get that video one way or another, weren’t you?”

Chris stayed silent.

“That’s what I thought,” Mandy nodded. “You’re disgusting. So I want it, and any copies… and if you already put that shit online, you’re going to have _major_ problems. You fucked with the wrong family. You want me to call Mickey?”

He shook his head, “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” Mandy said, taking a step back, but keeping her gun raised. “And Ian needs compensation. You know… for emotional distress, that sort of thing. He’s going to college —needs books, they’re really fucking expensive. Probably needs new clothes too.”

She followed him as he walked deeper into the apartment, going towards a closed door, presumably his office. “Just letting you know, I got two of my brothers waiting for me by the elevator,” she lied. “They’re much nicer than me, but if you try anything, they’ll put your fucking head in a bucket of battery acid.”

Chris nodded, face going a little gray, “Okay — _okay_.”

“I suggest that after we’re done here, you start making plans to leave town,” Mandy added. “I’d make those plans tonight, if I were you, call whoever you gotta call to get the fuck out. You’re not gonna wanna be in Chicago for too long when Mickey finds out about what you did to his boyfriend.”

Chris’ office was nice, like the rest of his apartment. Just a desk with a computer —a filing cabinet probably full of client information. He was a smart guy, not having anything on his computer. That’s how Mandy and her brothers kept their records. 

Computers are unreliable and can be hacked easily. Hard copies though? Nah. You keep your eyes on that shit and no one touches it. Easy to burn too, just in case. Throw some gasoline on that shit and light a match like nothing ever happened. So yeah, Chris was smart.

There was a video camera on the desk; Chris picked it up, turning to Mandy, “I haven’t done anything with the footage yet.”

Mandy arched a brow at him, keeping her gun steady, “You lying to me, Chris?”

He shook his head, “I’m not trying to get killed over some twink.”

She felt this fire catch at the bottom of her belly as she took a step forward, tapping his chest with the nose of her gun, “Watch your fucking mouth.”

Chris leaned away, chin tilting up, hands raising a little higher, but he held the camera out for her to take. She did, snatching it away with one hand, keeping her eyes and gun where they were.

“Compensation,” she reminded him. “ _Now_.”

 

* * *

 

He tried to be as quiet as he could, opening the apartment door, and slipping inside. Ian had no idea what the fuck to say, what the fuck to do… Mickey had called him six times since he was supposed to be back home from work —a good two hours ago. 

Two hours wasn’t an enormous amount of time, and Mickey wasn’t a fucking _tyrant_ , demanding phone calls immediately after Ian finished with a client… it was just out of character for Ian to not come home right after meeting with a client. He _always_ came home immediately after, to shower and regroup, and get back to _Ian_ again. (He then realized, as he closed the door behind him, that he hadn’t done that, he wasn’t Ian again)

Ian knew that was what worried Mickey, that was why he called so many times. But he’d ignored the calls every time simply because he fucking knew if he answered, he’d lose all control of his voice.

Because it was Mickey. And Mickey knew him. 

And... Mickey was sitting in the living room, on the couch, staring at him with that hard glare of his. 

Ian wasn’t scared of Mickey, that’s not why his hands shook. He wasn’t afraid of his boyfriend, it wasn’t anything like that. His hands shook because he was angry, scared he’d say the wrong thing, felt violated and betrayed by someone who was supposed to protect him. Chris was supposed to fucking protect him, that was his fucking _job_.

Mickey got up from the couch, crossing his arms under his chest, “So you’re not fucking dead. Called you over and over again like some bitch.”

Ian sighed, not knowing what else to say besides, “I need to shower.”

His boyfriend snorted a humorless laugh, “That’s all you’re gonna fucking say to me? You ignore my calls, don’t come home right after —you _always_ fucking come home.”

He knew it wasn’t fair, but Ian felt a switch trying to flip. Mickey didn’t know what the fuck was going on because Ian didn’t tell him. And mostly, Ian was angry at _himself_ for that. But right now all he wanted to do was be mad at Mickey. Probably because Mickey was there, right in front of him, and Chris wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair. So he took a deep breath, shook his head, and stuffed his shaking hands into his pockets.

“I ran into Mandy,” he said. “We were talking.”

“Fuck,” Mickey’s face fell soft, coming closer. “Did she say something to you again?”

Ian shook his head, “No… she’s helping me with something.”

Dark brows drew together, “Helping you with what?”

He couldn't tell him now, Mandy was right when she said it was better to wait until everything was taken care of, besides he needed to breathe, he needed to got into the shower. Ian shook his head again, “Can we talk about it after I shower, please?”

“Are you okay?” Mickey asked.

Ian nodded, but he knew that it looked wrong when he did. He wished he could take it back, but it was too late, Mickey saw. “I just want to be _me_ before we talk, okay?”

Mickey sighed, but nodded.

“I love you,” Ian told him, because it was true and he needed Mickey to know. He didn't want to hurt him, was terrified that as soon as the words left his mouth about what Chris did, about what Ian failed to tell him, that Mickey would kick him out for good.

Mickey closed the space between them and reached for Ian’s hand; he said it back, like he always did —Ian believed him. His skin was warm and Ian let his fingers be threaded between his boyfriends for a second before he left to go shower, to go be Ian again.

He was easier on himself this time; hot water, but not too hot; gently washing his skin. He’d already scrubbed the shit out of himself at the hotel, so this time he just used soapy hands to run over his skin one last time. He breathed, let his shoulders relax, let his body fall back to himself. 

It sounded like it shouldn't have been that easy, but Ian was so used to separating himself now, was so used to this _getting back to himself_ thing, that everything that happened at the hotel… it faded away. That wasn’t Ian. Sounded like bullshit, he knew. Sounded like a recipe for disaster, but that was how he’d trained himself. 

Chris still fucked him over, and Ian was still feeling fucked up about it, but it was just… separate. And now he was left with whatever fallout there was going to be in his relationship. Telling Mickey. Telling Mickey that he hadn’t been upfront with him since this problem first presented itself. 

When Ian climbed out of the shower it hit him that he wasn’t going to be working for Chris anymore. He was done with that. Done with fucking for money. He stood in the middle of the bathroom for a second and took a couple deep breaths, feeling a little pull at the corner of his mouth. 

There he was. Just Ian. Only Ian from now on.

After he got dressed, he sat down with Mickey in the living room. He was supposed to wait, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Mandy.

“You’re freaking me out,” Mickey told him. “What’s going on withyou?”

“Before I start, I just want to let you know that everything is being handled,” Ian said. “Okay? It’s taken care of.”

Mickey pulled a face, “The fuck is going on?”

“The day Yev went into the hospital —after I went to the gym— Chris called me and offered this _opportunity_ , I guess, to make some cash,” Ian began carefully. “He wanted me to do a porno —but I said no, okay? I told him no.”

Mickey’s jaw was working, “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

Ian took a deep breath, “Because you’d been through enough that day, and I didn’t want to put more shit on your plate—“

“No,” Mickey cut him off, shaking his head. It wasn't a good enough reason. They didn't keep anything from each other, that was the deal -they talked to each other, they took care of each other.

“I know,” Ian sighed, watching his boyfriend tense up, like he wanted to start pacing like a caged animal. “I should have told you, and I’m sorry.”

Mickey was quiet for a minute, just looking at Ian —Ian couldn’t get a good read on him, couldn’t figure out what was going through his head. It was making him nervous.

“Tonight, Chris videotaped me without me knowing,” Ian finally said, softer than he’d ever said anything. “Got some guy to hide a camera in his backpack and… taped everything.”

It was like the silence got even quieter. Ian stared down at his lap, refusing to look at Mickey’s face; he didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to see either his boyfriend looking at him like he was a piece of shit —or looking at him like he was going to do serious damage to Chris, he just… didn’t want to see _any_ of it, at all.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whispered, feeling his eyes and nose sting, feeling the tears starting to build up. “Mick, I’m sorry.”

Someone knocked on the door. Ian, still looking down at his lap shook his head as Mickey got up from the couch to answer it. Fuck. He ran his hand over his hair, took a deep breath, listened to the murmuring by the front door —Mickey and Mandy speaking softly, a rustle of noise. He didn’t want to look, so he just kept looking down. Who knows how long Ian stayed like that, how long Mickey was talking to his sister for.

Then Mickey was back, plastic bag in hand that he set on the coffee table. Ian glanced over at it, saw into the opening what looked like leftovers from something made of hard plastic that was smashed to bits and thrown in a fire. He sighed, finally forcing himself to look at Mickey.

His boyfriend pointed to the bag, “You don’t apologize for that,” he said. “That's not you.”

Ian’s stomach dropped, giving him room for oxygen, “Okay.”

“We don’t keep shit from each other,” Mickey said. "We take care of each other."

“I know,” Ian nodded. “I fucked up. I thought I handled it, but… I didn’t.”

Mickey shook his head, “It’s over. Okay? Are you okay?”

Ian shrugged, “I think so.”

“Ay,” Mickey grabbed his face, moving closer to him. His touch felt so good, grounded him, Ian leaned into it and let his eyes close for a second before looking into his boyfriends focused blue sight. “You're my guy, I love you,” Mickey said.

Ian felt his eyes prick with tears; he opened his mouth to say it back, wanted to scream it from the fucking window so everyone knew, but Mickey pressed his lips to his, and everything else dropped away —could have dropped into hell for all Ian cared.

 

* * *

 

Ian was passed out in bed, curled up on his side next to Mickey. Exhausted from everything that happened with Chris, with worrying —he was drained, and fell asleep as soon as they climbed under the covers. Mickey ran his fingers through red hair and watched him breathe for a long time; it was five or six in the morning now, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t sleep. He felt kind of numb. Didn’t really know what to say or do or think.

A million thoughts were running through his head, trying so desperately to steer clear of anger. He wasn’t angry at Ian, he understood what was going through his boyfriends head, why he didn't say anything, he got it. 

No, his anger wasn’t directed towards his boyfriend, but at the man who was supposed to watch his back. At the man who set him up like that. How fucked up did someone have to be to do that to another person. It was kind of a Terry move. And Mickey couldn’t let this go. His numbness was thinning out, burning up and melting into something dark that Mickey hadn’t felt in a long time.

He leaned over, pressed a kiss to Ian’s forehead, and gently slipped out of bed.

 

* * *

 

He put the hood of his sweatshirt up, kept his head down while he rode the elevator to the tenth floor. The smooth piece of metal felt cool in his hot hands —his fingers slipped into the rings, he held the brass knuckles tight, tight as he could, until his hand ached. Mickey kept his breathing slow, pushing the anger down a little bit more. He had to wait, had to stay calm for a few more minutes.

The elevator dinged; doors opened. He took another breath and stepped out, clenching the metal piece in his hand again, _tight tight tight_ , then released so his hand wouldn’t cramp up. His footfalls were slow, but heavy. He blocked everything out, forced every other emotion to fade to the back, bringing up that anger again. 

Mandy told him not to do anything stupid, but he couldn't replay those words right now. She told him that she took care of it, gave him a heavy bag of cash for Ian’s college (the redhead felt weird about it and didn’t want to use it, but Mickey kept it in the back of the closet just in case he changed his mind later). Mandy told him to leave it be.

But he couldn’t.

One last deep, measured breath when he got to Chris’ apartment door. He frowned, seeing it propped open, just barely. Mickey slipped his fingers from his brass knuckles, pocketed them, and drew his gun from the waistband of his jeans while he opened the door with his elbow.

“Fuck,” he whispered, shaking his head.

It was empty. Chris was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have this resolved all in one chapter, because I know how incredibly fucked up and maddening this situation is. If it seemed rushed, maybe it was, I apologize for that, but I honestly just wanted to wrap this bit up because I feel like I’m starting to drama-spiral or something. 
> 
> I realized while I was three-quarters of the way through this chapter that I’m kinda-sorta touching on a sour s5 plot point. Obviously this route was different, and idk what I’m trying to say here other than I know and… just know that my original intention wasn’t to parallel that, or mirror that in any way (even though this “porn” was not something Ian knew about or wanted to do).
> 
> Also, I realized that in a world alone (which is on hold until I can figure that shit out) I put Mickey through the ringer, and this one I’m kind of putting Ian through it. Ugh. Drama. The shit we put our faves through is unreal. Let's get some happier times, yeah?
> 
> And yes, Mickey and Mandy are okay now, more or less.
> 
> Last but not least, I'm going to be working on my Big Bang story as much as I can for the next week, so just a heads up, slight hold on this for now. But hey... Ian's not working for Chris anymore, you know what that means. Soon.


	21. Selling The Lie

Ian threaded his fingers between Mickey’s, holding his hands to the mattress above his head. He pressed his lips to the underside of Mickey’s jaw as his hips rocked into him, making his boyfriend breathe heavy and arch under him. He tasted so good, felt so good and tight around him, taking the slow fuck that Ian gave him beautifully.

“Ian,” Mickey panted, hands pulling under Ian’s grip, legs trying to move higher on Ian’s waist, to pull him closer. “I need to touch you.”

Ian grinned against Mickey’s skin, teeth lightly nipping at him there before he released his boyfriends hands, “Hold onto me,” he said.

Mickey wrapped his arms around his shoulders as Ian held deep inside of him, carefully moving and turning them to the side of the bed so he could sit on the edge with Mickey straddling his lap. His boyfriend shuddered and moaned above him, hands griping his shoulders as he started moving.

“So good,” Mickey breathed, pressing his forehead down against Ian’s, elbows resting on Ian’s shoulders, hands in his hair. They were caged in that way, by Mickey’s arms. Locked away in this little warm space just for them.

Ian gripped Mickey’s hips, then slid his hands up and down his back while Mickey rode him, “Just like that,” Ian said. “Just like that — _fuck_.”

He moved his hands to grip onto the tops of Mickey’s thighs, feeling his muscles tighten and relax under his skin every time he moved; fuck, why was that so hot? Everything was so fucking good. And slow, and hot, and so fucking intense. Mickey’s breath panting against Ian’s mouth, noses bumping, his hard, leaking cock sliding against Ian’s stomach. It was perfect. Ian felt drunk on his boyfriend, completely fucking wasted.

“So fucking full,” Mickey moaned, his fingers tightening in the top of Ian’s sweat-damp hair. The way he moved was completely hypnotizing, fluid and confident. It got Ian off so much, feeling Mickey’s back arch and bow under his hands, hips lifting and rocking. He never got over it, was never not amazed by how Mickey worked himself on top of him.

Ian smiled through his own moan, his body vibrating, wave after wave of Mickey-drunk hitting him every time Mickey moved, taking him deep. “That’s my guy —take it so good, show me how much… _fuck_ , show me how much you can take.”

“You know how much I can take,” Mickey accentuated his words by pressing his hips down and staying there; Ian went fuzzy around the edges, biting out a strangled groan as his mouth sought out his boyfriends throat, kissing and licking at the skin there. “Fucking take it all.”

“Yeah you do,” Ian said through a weak, breathy laugh; he grabbed Mickey’s ass, two handfuls, urging him to keep moving, to move faster, harder. He punched out dark noises against Mickey’s skin; static was filling his head, taking over every other thought.

“I wanna —wanna come,” Mickey’s voice was thick as he spoke; Ian felt his whole body tense up, tightening around him. Ian groaned, moving back just enough to look at him.

“Not yet,” Ian wet his lips, one of his hands wedging between them to wrap around Mickey’s cock. He stared into Mickey’s eyes, his hand being fucked every time the brunette moved. Mickey whined and gasped, his hips starting to stutter and move a little faster, chasing that feeling.

“Ian, please,” Mickey grunted, holding either side of Ian’s face. He pressed his forehead against Ian’s again, rising and sinking faster, harder on Ian’s cock. “You feel so fucking good, I… fuck, _please_ …”

His body went white-hot, buzzing and tingling all over; every time Mickey fucked himself of his cock, it pulsed everywhere. He pushed his lips against Mickey’s, kissing him soppily, licking into his mouth, greedy and demanding. Mickey gave it up, kissing him back hard. He was close too, so fucking close.

He got this cocky curl to the corner of his mouth as he gently ended the kiss with Mickey, looking into blown-out blue eyes, flushed face, dark creased brows. Mickey was falling apart at the seams.

“Show me,” Ian panted heavily, his own resolve beginning to fail him. “Show me how good I feel inside you.”

Mickey snarled a grin, dipping his head down to latch on to the crook of Ian’s neck, hands sliding around to his back, gripping and touching everywhere he could. He bit and licked at his skin, sucking hard, hips working faster on top of Ian, taking him harder,but still keeping that rhythm that fucked Ian up right to his core. Ian closed his eyes and let his head fill up with that sweet static, holding on just one more second because he knew that Mickey was right _there_. 

Mickey sucked at his skin hard, no doubt leaving a mark (to match the other ones that littered his body), as his hips stuttered erratically and he held as close as he could to Ian, fucking up into Ian’s hand until he pushed himself over the edge, spilling between them.

Ian let himself go, let himself be pushed back and held down to the bed as Mickey rode him through his orgasm. He gasped large mouthfuls of air and bucked his hips up into his boyfriend, the static reaching it’s peak then easing away like the tide.

With Mickey laying on top of him, face pressed into his neck, Ian laid there for a bit, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend, just holding him there, breathing with him, coming down from his Mickey-drunk.

“Good morning,” Ian whispered. Mickey hummed, sated.

After they untangled from one another, they got into the shower. Steam billowed up around them, and they kissed for a long time, under the hot water. Then Ian eased away and leaned back against the clean white tiles, hands reaching out to brush against Mickey’s hip because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself this morning, he _had_ to touch him. 

“I uh, wanna talk to you about something,” Mickey said quietly as he reached for the body wash, squirting some into his hands, reaching out for Ian.

“Okay,” Ian said, letting himself be pulled by his boyfriend, humming when those gentle tattooed hands started soaping him up, starting at his shoulders. “Everything okay?”

Mickey nodded, but hesitated.

Ian frowned, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Mickey said. “Just… don’t know how you’re gonna feel about it.” His hands slid down Ian’s arms, then back up, his eyes hesitant as they looked up into Ian’s.

“Tell me.”

“I wanna…” Mickey sighed, hands stopping, head shaking. He let out an uncomfortable laugh and shrugged his shoulders, “I was thinking since you’re not working anymore…” he trailed off, sighing.

He frowned again, an odd bubble of worry forming in his chest, “What’s going on?”

Mickey chewed on the corner of his bottom lip, shrugging once more, “Wanted to know if you wanted to, you know, ditch the rubbers.”

The worry bubble popped, and was replaced with this anxious thrill jetting up and down his body. It had been nearly a week since the incident with Chris, and Ian would have been lying if he said he hadn’t thought about that. He wanted to feel Mickey, feel all of him, mark him from the inside out —have the same done to him. 

Ian pulled Mickey close to him, turning them, pressing him against the cool tile he had just been leaning against. He took Mickey’s soapy hands in his own and pressed them to the wall as he kissed him, “I think that’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Mickey smirked against his mouth, “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” Ian kissed him again. Reality trickled back in, reminding him that he was supposed to take care of Mickey, and Mickey was supposed to take care of him. He pulled back from the kiss, releasing his boyfriends hands, gave him one last brush of lips. “We should both get a full work-up done though. One last time, you know?”

This wasn’t new for them. Ian got checked monthly, and Mickey did too. It was something they’d been doing together since their relationship started. Even though Mickey wasn’t sleeping with anyone else, and Ian always used condoms when he fucked clients (who were also required to get tested before any appointment —Chris hadn’t fucked around with protecting his assets), you couldn't be too careful. Ian wanted to feel Mickey, but he wanted to be smart about this.

Mickey nodded, “Of course.”

Ian grinned, his belly fluttering, “You know what we should do when we’re all clear?”

“What?” Mickey was obviously fighting his smile, but it wasn’t working. His smile was wide, dimpled, gorgeous. 

Ian sunk to his knees in front of his boyfriend, taking his hardening cock into his hand as he looked up at him; he started slowly stroking him. The hot water was still raining down on them, had rinsed off all the soap from his body and Mickey’s hands —it hit the side of his face and neck, but Ian could not have cared any less about it.

“We should take a weekend,” Ian said. “Go to the house…” he pressed his lips to the crease of Mickey’s thigh, making him shudder. “And you can make good on your promise.”

“My promise?” Mickey panted with false innocence, carding his fingers through Ian’s wet hair. 

Ian smirked up at him, kept stroking Mickey’s now fully hard cock, “Yeah.” He licked Mickey from base to tip, “Mark my ass up, inside and out.”

“Ah, _fuck_ Ian,” Mickey held onto the wall of the shower, his knees wobbling a little bit.

“Exactly,” Ian winked; he kept looking up at Mickey as he dragged his tongue across his leaking slit, tasting him before swallowing him down. 

 

* * *

 

Later that night, after Mickey left and came back from the garage —after Ian spent his day writing a couple essays and filling out applications (a tedious and frustrating process, mind you —Ian had forgotten how much he _hated_ writing essays; Ian had also _tentatively_ settled on a Business major for now), evening came, and Mickey had a very important dinner. Ian grinned, watching his boyfriend check his hair in the bathroom mirror for probably the fifth time. He looked good —nice dress shirt, dark pants. 

“Hasn’t changed in the last three minutes, Mick,” Ian teased.

Mickey grunted at him, walking out of the bathroom and to the closet —probably to look at his shirts again to make sure he made the right choice, “Fuck off.”

Ian rolled his eyes, chewing on his lip to keep from laughing. He got off of their bed and closed the space between him and Mickey, pressing up against him from behind, “You look good. Really good.”

Mickey leaned back against him and sighed, “Should probably cancel.”

“Don’t do that,” Ian said quietly, pressing his lips to the side of Mickey’s neck, arms tightening around his waist. “It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be great.”

“Gonna be shit,” Mickey huffed.

“Not a fucking chance,” Ian assured him. “You got this.” Mickey snorted a laugh. Ian kept his teeth gentle as he nipped at Mickey’s skin, “I need you out of here anyways —you’re distracting, and I need to finish up these applications.”

Mickey turned in his hold, a grin on his lips, “I’m distracting, huh?”

Ian kissed him, soft and slow, “Very much so.” He sighed when Mickey licked into his mouth, hands sliding into his hair, kissing him harder. Ian pulled back from the kiss, not really wanting to, “How’re you supposed to have a college boy in your bed if I’m too distracted to _get into_ college?”

“Mm,” Mickey hummed, ghosting his lips across Ian’s one more time, “Good point.”

Ian reached down, slipping his hands into Mickey’s. He paused, feeling cool metal wrapped around one of his fingers —his ring finger. His stomach turned, and he failed miserably from keeping his face passive.

“You’re wearing your wedding ring,” His voice came out flat.

Mickey sighed, “There’s a lot of eyes, where I’m going.”

“There’s a lot of eyes everywhere,” Ian murmured, hands gently dropping from Mickey’s. “What about the divorce papers —what about all of that?”

Mickey wet his lips, looking at Ian, “It’s still happening, nothing’s changed.”

“Right,” Ian nodded. “Nothing’s changed.”

His mood was dropping, the protective fantasy bubble of their apartment —of hot morning sex, and breakfast at the kitchen table, and laying together on the couch— melted away, exposing what was really there. It happened so fast, and Ian’s mouth got this sour taste that he wanted to spit out. It had been so good today. It had been sweet. Then Mickey put that ring on, and… Ian was the secret. Ian was the thing he didn't want to be.

“It’s a piece of metal,” Mickey said.

“Not to me,” Ian whispered, shaking his head. He was surprised by his own words, and by the way Mickey’s face softened, he was too.

Then Mickey hooked his hand around the back of Ian’s neck, pulling him closer, looking him in the eye, “Ay,” he said. “She signed the papers —it’s still happening. Give me one more month, okay? Please. One more month. I don’t want to, but I gotta play it like this right now. Until I get these fucking Italians off my books, I _have_ to play it like this. These people talk.”

“I know,” Ian sighed; he _did_ know. Honestly, he _did_ understand. He just didn’t like that ring on his boyfriends finger. He didn’t like not being able to be in a normal relationship.

“I love you,” Mickey told him. Ian believed him. Fuck, every time he said it, he believed it. And it should have scared him, but it didn’t. Not at all. “I’m your guy,” he held up his other hand, showing him the gold band, “And _this_ ring is just a piece of metal, okay? Might as well be scrap; it doesn’t mean shit.”

Ian felt his face heat up; he nodded.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it wasn’t the best place to take a thirteen year old —nice place like this was probably really fucking boring, but Svetlana said that Yev liked the food there, so that’s where he made the reservation. Mickey looked around the restaurant, a soft and warm curve resting against his hip. He ignored it, playing his part, arm wrapped around Svetlana’s waist. She held onto him, playing her part as well. 

She was really good at this. He could talk shit about Svetlana all fucking day, but he couldn’t talk shit about her ability to sell the lie. In the back of Mickey’s mind, he wondered if this confused Yev. He wondered if the kid seeing his parents hold onto each other like this and smile, seeing Mickey pull the chair out for Svetlana… he wondered if it gave him false hope. 

So he dialed it back after they sat down at the table. Svetlana tried to lean over, touch his hand, but he gave her a little shake of his head, and she seemed to understand, following his lead. She was good at selling a lie, and she was good at understanding Mickey —they’d had a _lot_ of practice over the years. This was nothing new —the only real difference was adding Yev to the equation.

Mickey nodded to a balding man passing by. He was a lower-level Russian that Mickey worked with a handful of times —had a mean streak about him (the restaurant was crawling with lower-level Russians, as far as he could tell). The man nodded back, his hand reaching out to squeeze Mickey’s shoulder quickly. It smelled like he bathed in cologne, and immediately made Mickey feel a little queasy.

“You work with him?” Svetlana asked, distracted as she looked through her menu.

“Not anymore,” Mickey said. 

“How come?”

Mickey’s brows shot up as he looked across the table. For a second he completely forgot that Yev was there, he’d been so quiet. His son looked at him with interest in his eyes, leaning forward a little bit, ready to absorb any information that Mickey was about to give him. 

He gave a shrug, hoping that the bullshit answer of, “We’re not uh… working on Volkswagens anymore —he works for a Volkswagen dealership,” would work.

Yev made a little face, “That’s a pretty big market to let go of.”

Mickey laughed, surprised. Svetlana laughed too. “Yeah,” Mickey nodded. “But… we’re going for more domestic now. Less hassle.”

“That’s cool,” Yev nodded, opening the large menu up in front of him. The kid had a soul years older than he was, and it was the coolest thing Mickey ever saw. Yev was half of him —that was his kid. Almost thirteen years old.

It was quiet for a couple minutes while the three of them look at their menus. Clinking glasses and soft murmuring conversation filled up the silence though, so Mickey was grateful for that. He didn’t really know what to say, didn’t know how this was supposed to go. 

He glanced over at Yev, watching for a second as the kid’s eyes read through the different options, then carefully snuck a peak over at Mickey —obviously being caught doing so. Yev tucked his lips in while he grinned, his brows raising. Mickey gave him a little half-grin back.

Svetlana brought up Yev’s school —something easy. Mickey listened to his kid talk about Science, then English. Yev was still a little shy, shrugging a lot and calling this and that _dumb_ , which Mickey couldn't help but correct him, telling him it wasn’t dumb. That seemed to be the right move, because it made Yev smile.

After dinner, Svetlana suggested that they walk a few doors down to the little gelato place, so they did. It was surreal, being out with his soon-to-be ex wife and his son. Mickey really wished he could do this with Ian. Ian would probably be really good with Yev, he probably knew how to talk to kids, having younger siblings he helped raise, and all that. Yev would probably like Ian a lot. Maybe —Mickey didn’t really know Yev all that well, so he couldn’t really say for sure. But he knew that Ian would love Yev.

“What do you want?” Mickey asked Yev as they got up to the counter. 

Yev looked at the dozen or so flavors —pinks and browns and creams, there was a mint green one too, and more of a yellowy one as well. Finally, the kid pointed to one of the brown tubs of gelato, “Chocolate.”

“Always chocolate,” Svetlana smiled, hand running over the top of Yev’s hair.

The kid’s cheeks got a little pink as he ducked away from her touch, “Mom.”

Mickey snorted, grinning over at Svetlana, who was rolling her eyes at Yev, “Mom,” she mimicked him. “You want cone or cup, Zhenya?”

“Cup, I guess,” Yev shrugged, then turned to look up at Mickey, pointing over towards an empty table by the window. “You want me to grab that table?”

Mickey gave him a shrug, “Sure.”

“Oh, you think I am waitress now?” Svetlana asked Yev, eyebrows perched high. “I bring your ice cream to you, your highness?”

Yev gave her a smirk that was distinctly Milkovich before he walked off, calling behind him, “Thanks mom!”

“He is a little shit,” Svetlana told Mickey.

Mickey shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Milkovich.” They ordered —Mickey got chocolate too, and a thing of chocolate-peanut-butter to go, for Ian. Svetlana got strawberry.

Overall, the dinner, and after, was nice. Nerve-racking, but nice. Mickey listened to Yev talk about a video game he wanted while they ate their gelato. He started relaxing a little more, asking a few questions here and there. Obviously it was going to take more than one dinner, more than one night, to connect with his son. 

But by the time they were all walking back to their cars, he was feeling better about it. He wasn’t even worried about Svetlana at that point, not even focused on her. She was a buffer, doing her job, but that was it. So yeah… it was nice.

That is, until Yev turned around to look at Mickey and Svetlana when they reached Svetlana’s car as asked, “Are you guys getting back together?”

And Mickey’s stomach curled up and dropped. He didn’t know what to say, looking over at Svetlana, who looked just as gobsmacked, her mouth hanging open a little bit. The kid’s words hung in the air for a minute and Mickey could feel himself starting to close up, could feel himself wanting to call all this shit off. 

They shouldn’t have gone somewhere where Mickey and Svetlana had to play up the lie, not with Yev. What a stupid fucking move that had been. He was a kid, he didn’t understand, didn’t _know_ about Mickey.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Yev added, finally —fucking _finally_ — with a shrug. “I just wanted to know.”

Mickey breathed, hand immediately reaching inside his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes. His shoulders fell, and he handed a cigarette off to Svetlana when her hand reached out for one.  “We’re not,” Mickey said. “Just thought… it’d be nice, you know. Have dinner.”

Yev nodded, “Okay. It’s just… you guys looked kinda cozy at the restaurant, so…”

Svetlana lit her cigarette and passed the lighter to Mickey, “You remember I tell you your father works with stupid men who do not believe in divorce, and _other_ things?”

Yev nodded, “Yeah.” Mickey felt his heart inch up to his throat. Did she fucking tell him?

“They go to that place,” Svetlana said. “Bad for business if they see us and we are not happy couple. I should have told you before we came tonight, I am sorry.”

“That’s dumb,” Yev rolled his eyes. “What’s your marriage got to do with the business?”

“Nothing,” Mickey managed to speak up. “That’s why I’m not working with them anymore.”

“Well then, why would they care?”

Mickey took a long pull form his cigarette, putting his words together, blowing smoke away from the kid, “Because all those fucking guys talk.”

Yev nodded, seeming to understand, “Oh. So no one knows you’re…”  Again, Mickey held his breath, staring at his son. He felt his brows raise on their own accord, prompting Yev to finish his sentence.  “You know,” Yev lifted his shoulders. “Getting a divorce.”

“No one knows, not yet,” Svetlana answered. She handed her car keys to the kid, “Go get in car and turn the heat on while I talk with your father, okay?”

Yev nodded, “Okay —thanks for dinner, dad.”

Mickey nodded, “Yeah.” As soon as the car door closed, he glared over at Svetlana, keeping his voice down, “Did you fucking tell him?”

“No,” she rolled her eyes. “I did not tell him you are rainbow boy, you can relax.”

He tried to keep his face passive, just in case Yev was watching, but it barely worked, “Watch yourself.”

Svetlana pulled on her cigarette and moved a piece of hair out other face, ignoring his words, “I told you that we did not have to go to that place.”

“You said he liked it.”

She shrugged, “So?”

“Didn’t wanna take him somewhere he didn't like,” Mickey sighed.

“Mickey, he is twelve-year-old. You put burger and fries in front of him, he is happy boy. Not hard to please —he is not picky,” she said. “You did good tonight. Okay? He likes you, you can relax.”

Mickey nodded, dropping his cigarette on the ground, stomping it out. “I’ll let you know when I can do this again, okay?”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, watching him.

He took a deep breath, giving up, “Thanks for setting this up.”

“Thank you for doing this for him,” she said.

 

* * *

 

Mickey put the container of gelato in the freezer, tossed his keys on the kitchen counter (took his wedding band off and tossed that next to his keys as well), grabbed a beer. He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he walked to the bedroom. Pretty good night, overall. Small victory; nothing to complain about too much... except for that almost-heart attack at the end.

He took a drink from his beer and grinned when he entered the bedroom. Ian propped up in bed, head tilted back against the pillows and headboard, computer in his lap. Completely passed the fuck out. He carefully took Ian’s computer off of his lap and set it on his nightstand before he took a minute to look at his boyfriend.

Carefully, Mickey sat on the edge of the bed next to Ian’s hip as he looked at his sleeping face. Soft and relaxed, his freckles soft against his pale skin. He reached out and cupped his hand against the side of Ian’s face, letting his thumb brush over his bottom lip. He never really thought that he could love someone this much.

Ian didn’t stir in his sleep, chest rising and falling gently with every breath. Mickey leaned forward and softly kissed his forehead, before standing up and moving to the other side of the bed. He undressed and climbed in under the covers.

That time Ian _did_ stir, subconsciously or not, sliding down under the covers more, laying down more, head on his pillow. Mickey turned his nightstand light off, then reached out for Ian, hooking his arm around his waist and pulling him until his back was pressed against his chest.

When Ian made a small grunt of a noise, Mickey pressed his lips to the back of his head, moving to the redhead’s ear, “Don’t wake up. I got you.”

It seemed although that’s all the direction that Ian needed, because his body relaxed again, sinking into the mattress. Mickey dipped his head down to kiss the top of Ian’s shoulder, pressing more light kisses over his skin there. He let himself relax against Ian’s back, feeling his warmth, savoring this moment. Times like this, he didn’t think. Just laid there in the dark with Ian and let himself be.

“I love you,” Mickey whispered against Ian’s skin, kissing his shoulder again. He know’s Ian is out, and his words are pretty much being said into the void when he speaks, but he says it anyway. “So important to me. I want you to know my son. I want… I want it to be real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	22. Two Weeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update!?

Two weeks had passed. A lot happened.

First, Mickey had watched his sister pack up her things at the garage. She’d decided to take that job at her boyfriend’s company. He couldn't convince her to change her mind, but he let her know a couple times that if she ever wanted her job back, it was hers. It was harder to see her go than he thought it would be.

Mickey had never done this without her. None of them had, the boys had always had their sister to look to when they didn’t have the answers, or got themselves in a tight spot. Mickey couldn’t say he’d be the first to admit that _maybe_ she was better at dealing with people than he was, but he trusted her the most. And now she was leaving. And it sucked.

He tried not to get into a fight with her, he really did. “I don’t trust him,” he said.

Mandy shook her head, box of her personal items in her hands, “How come you trusted him before? Now that he’s offering me a way to make legit money, and not be in this life anymore… all of a sudden you don’t trust him?”

He know how it looked, and Mandy was absolutely right to question it… because it looked like Mickey didn’t want a better, legit life for his sister. That wasn’t true at all, but he didn’t know how to explain it without fucking it up. So he just kept quiet, hands shoved into his pockets, lip caught between his teeth. 

Then Mandy left while her brothers watched her go. Iggy, Tony and Joey seemed to think that Mandy would be back in a couple months. Mickey wasn’t so sure.

In the past two weeks, Mickey had taken Yev and Svetlana out to dinner three times. Yev talked more about school, and his friends, and video games, and everything else that he found interesting. It was getting easier to interact with him. They didn’t go to nice restaurants anymore, they went places where there were burgers and salty french fries. Turns out, Yev and Mickey got the same things on their burgers. It was kind of cool.

Then of course… there was the night that Mickey came home with busted, bleeding knuckles; swollen hands painfully hanging at his sides. He couldn’t tell Ian about the job that the Italians had him do… part of a series of jobs that were eventually leading to an ending relationship with them.

Ian was sitting at the kitchen counter on his computer, typing away, when Mickey came back from that job —collecting a good deal of money from people who didn’t have all of it. Mickey tried to ease by, tried to make his way to the kitchen without Ian seeing, but it didn’t work. Needless to say, the redhead was _not_ happy, but he didn’t say anything.

Those green eyes went wide for a second before he followed Mickey into the kitchen. Mickey, even though he didn’t need to say it, said “I can’t talk about it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ian sighed, irritated. “You good?”

Mickey nodded, “Fine. Just need ice.”

They spent the rest of that night in bed. Both of Mickey’s hands were resting on folded up towels, ziplock bags of ice on top of each. Ian settled between his legs, on his stomach, arms folded over Mickey's hips, just looking up at him and telling him about his day. It was quiet, and nice, and when Ian started laying kisses over his stomach, everything felt much better.

When Mickey woke up the next morning, they were still in that position, except Ian had his long arms wrapped around his waist, head resting on his stomach like a damn pillow. Mickey’d taken his hands from under the bags of water and carded his tender fingers through Ian’s hair, jut looking at him. 

Then when Ian finally woke up, they got into the shower, where Ian took care of Mickey, his hands gentle as he cleaned the previous day’s events from his skin. After Ian kissed him soft, and gave him one of those world-stopping smiles, they got ready for their days, leaving the apartment empty behind them.

The good thing about doing what Mickey did for a living, and knowing who he knew, was that when Ian was looking for a job, he could make some calls. Ian wasn’t exactly on board with that right away. It took a little convincing, a lot of kissing and touching and promises —Mickey wanted to help Ian, and he spent a fair amount of time showing him that it wasn’t a hand-out, before Ian finally caved and let Mickey make those calls.

It wasn’t even really that big of a deal; Ian was looking for part-time work that paid _decent enough_. He didn't want to commit to full-time while trying to start school (that, and honestly, between the money he’d saved, and Chris’ money that was still in the duffle bag in their closet, he really didn’t have to worry _that_ much right now). 

So, with everything else that happened in the past two weeks, Ian also started working at this uppity French restaurant that wasn’t very popular with the ‘big guys’ that Mickey previously worked with. A couple nights, Ian brought home some pastries. That in and of itself, in Mickey’s opinion, was worth it —plus Ian really raked in the tips, turning the charm on for customers. People liked him, and Mickey could tell that put a little bounce in his boyfriends step.

The best thing to come out of Ian’s new job though was that he was making friends. He hadn’t been working at the restaurant for too long, but he’d come home talking about a couple other servers, or the hostess —how they were nice, and invited him out. And when Ian told them that he didn’t drink, they still invited him out just to spend time with. Ian was happy there for now, Mickey could tell.

But before all of that happened —the job, and the dinners, Mandy leaving, Mickey coming home with bloody hands— Mickey and Ian went into the clinic, together. They got a full workup done, and during those two weeks, awaited the results to come back. 

Then the day finally came. They drove to the clinic together, picked up their results, and drove back to the apartment. The whole time, Ian was pretty quiet, fiddling with his phone, and brushing his fingers across Mickey’s knuckles here and there. 

Mickey wasn’t worried about the results, he never really was. And even though Ian had always been extremely careful, and Chris conducted his business in a very strict manner with his clients —everyone was always tested and checked out— Mickey knew that there was this part of Ian that froze up with nerves every time he got that envelope.

They sat on the edge of their bed, like they always did. Took a deep breath. Opened the envelopes together. They’d done this so many times, but this time was bigger than all the other times. It felt heavier.

Before Mickey looked at his results, he looked over at Ian, “You wanna go out tonight?”

Ian’s eyes went a little wide, “Where?”

Mickey shrugged, grasping for ideas before throwing in the towel. He gave Ian a grin and went all in, “ _Out_.”

The redhead looked confused for a second, “You mean like out out?”

Mickey nodded, “To one of those gross come-bucket clubs. Just... fuck everything and go out.”

Ian pulled a face at Mickey’s words, but it quickly turned into a beaming smile, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nodded. 

Ian nodded, looking like he was about to combust. He’d been wanting to go out with Mickey but he never asked, “And you’ll dance with me?”

“If you get me drunk enough,” Mickey chuckled, playing with the edge of his envelope. 

He wanted to do this for Ian, he wanted to start taking the steps to be in a normal relationship, and stop hiding out in their apartment. Dinners at restaurants where they had to act like friends were boring, so they barely did that. He always knew that Ian grew antsy sometimes; he wasn’t the kind of guy to want to just sit home all the time. 

But Ian had _never_ complained, had always pretty much rolled with the way things had to be right now. Maybe Mickey was getting caught up in the moment of getting ready to look at their test results, seeing if it was okay for them to go to the next level of their relationship… he didn’t care. He just wanted his boyfriend to be happy. _He_ wanted to be happy.

Mickey reached over and hooked his hand around the back of Ian’s neck, pulling him closer. He kissed him, then pressed his forehead to Ian’s, “Love you.”

“Love you,” Ian said back. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

_Negative_.

 

* * *

 

Mickey almost immediately regretted the suggestion to come to a club the moment they stepped through the doors. He wasn’t really even a party guy in the first place —sitting around with his brothers, or a couple friends, drinking and smoking, chilling out… that was fine. That was nice, even. But _this_ … the exhaustingly loud music and the flashing lights, and having to weave around people to get to the fucking bar… this was awful.

But he wasn’t really here for himself, he was here for Ian, and so he’d make the best of it. His shoulders got a little tense when Ian grabbed his hand and lead him towards the bar; Mickey kept having to remind himself of where they were, and the likelihood of them seeing anyone that he worked with was pretty low. Probably. Also this was his idea in the first place, it'd be kind of shitty to try to back out now, right?

“Let’s get you liquored up,” Ian said loudly over the music as he pounded his fist on top of the bar a couple times. Ian dipped his head down, pressing his mouth close to Mickey’s ear, “I wanna dance with you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, waving the bartender over. He ordered a double whiskey, trying to ignore how close Ian was standing, his he was pressed against his side like he was. He was _also_ trying to ignore the guy at the end of the bar looking at his boyfriend like a fucking twelve ounce steak. 

When the bartender set the glass in front of Mickey, he grinned at him. Mickey thanked him, payed him, and knocked the alcohol back quickly.

“You’re tense,” Ian’s voice said next to his ear. “You wanna leave?”

Mickey shook his head, “Just gotta get used to this shit.”

Ian grabbed his shoulder, “Hey, look at me.” Mickey did, eyebrows raising. Ian smiled at him, so big and bright. “We’re okay here, I promise.”

A little tension eased out of Mickey’s shoulders. Ian was so fucking excited about going out like this, like a damn puppy. He gave a short nod, feeling his boyfriends hand curl around his wrist and pull him into the sea of sweaty bodies.

The music pulsed in his chest, and Mickey had close to zero dance skills that he knew of, so he let Ian take the lead. The redhead settled behind him, long arms folding around his shoulders, nose nuzzling the side of his neck. Despite himself, Mickey just went with it, following the sway of Ian’s hips behind him, feeling Ian’s body pressed against him like that. Despite himself, he suddenly couldn’t give a shit about the crowd, or the _publicness_ of it all.

This was so new to him. They were surrounded by people, but were still strangely very much alone. Ian kept it pretty simple, the way he rolled his hips and pressed up behind Mickey. One of his hands wandered down to Mickey’s hip, gripping him softly, and Mickey secretly grinned to himself, because he realized that this whole dancing thing wasn’t actually that hard for him. It was almost — _almost_ — like riding his boyfriend. He felt a little better about it, relaxing a little more.

There were sweaty bodies everywhere, mouths pressing against each other everywhere —all sorts of dancing that Mickey had never seen before. All he could hear was the pulsing house music, felt it deep in his bones. This wasn’t his scene, but tonight it was… okay. Tonight he could try to just _go with it_ for a little while. He was faceless here.

Mickey felt Ian start kissing his neck as they moved together. He looked around, shoulders tensing for a second before relaxing again, having to remind himself that literally no one in the club gave a single fuck about what they were doing. No one. 

He knew he shouldn’t be feeling this fucking okay with all of this, it was so against his nature to be out in public like this with his boyfriend grinding against his ass and kissing on his neck… but he kind of was; he was okay. 

Ian scraped his teeth across Mickey’s skin; he closed his eyes, head tilting to the side a little, giving Ian a little more room. He felt the redhead smile against his neck, at the same time his hips pressed more against him, showing Mickey how much he was enjoying this.

And then something happened that Mickey wasn’t expecting at all. He opened his eyes, because Ian had removed his hand from his hip quickly, reaching it out in front of Mickey. At first he didn’t understand what was happening, then he saw Ian making a _stop_ motion with his hand to a guy standing directly in front of Mickey. 

Then Ian’s mouth detached from Mickey’s neck, and very clearly he heard his boyfriend call over the music, to the man, “Fuck off.”

The man looked a little dejected, but he disappeared into the crowd. Mickey punched out a laugh, turning around in Ian’s hold to look at him, “That just happen?”

Ian nodded, but he wasn’t looking at Mickey, he was scanning the people around him like a fucking soldier looking for immediate threats; they weren’t even dancing anymore. Mickey hadn’t really seen this side of Ian before —normally _he_ was the one getting jealous and protective. He didn’t even know what to do in this situation.

“Ay,” Mickey called over the music.

Ian finally looked at him, his hands resting on Mickey’s hips. He looked all over Ian’s face, taking in his the colored lights bounced off his skin. He looked so good, like always. And he was all his. 

“You gonna dance with me, or you wanna go?”

Ian grinned.

They only stayed for a couple more hours, but thankfully they were both _pretty much_ left alone by everyone there. Dancing still wasn’t Mickey’s _thing_ , he didn’t really get the point, but Ian liked it, liked hanging on him like an octopus, and pushing his face into the crook of his neck. Mickey'd probably never admit it out lout, but he had fun.

They even did the club “hookup” thing and popped into the bathroom together, piling into a stall to make out for a little bit and grope each other through their clothes. The bathroom was kind of gross though, and Mickey was one hundred percent positive that he’d heard people moaning in the next stall.

Before leaving, Mickey wanted to get another drink —might as well. It was another battle getting to the bar, squeezing past dancing, sweaty bodies. Someone laughed right in Mickey’s ear, and he had to take a deep breath before he snapped at the person. He just didn’t like big crowds like this, it got him a little anxious, he needed his space.

Mickey slid onto a barstool; Ian settled next to him, but stood standing, leaning close to him. While he waved the bartender over, he felt Ian’s familiar hand gently rubbing between his shoulders. It felt good. Then Ian’s fingers slid up the back of his neck and sunk into his hair; Mickey sighed, leaning back into the touch. In the back of his mind, he couldn't really tell if he’d gotten used to the music or if it was turned down, because it wasn’t so bad anymore. Hell, maybe his fucking eardrums had blown at this point.

“I know you hate this, but thank you,” Ian said next to his ear.

Mickey gave him a half grin and said, “It’s just not my thing, I don’t hate it.”

Ian didn’t seem to fully believe him, but he didn’t say anything, just grinned at him and scrubbed his fingers against Mickey’s scalp. Instead he asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Very suddenly, Mickey felt his heart jump into his throat and beat wildly there. He took a deep breath, feeling a little vulnerable (which he didn’t like) but at the same time… _yes, please, please kiss me, I need that, I need you._

It was overwhelming, and Mickey kept telling himself that he was faceless here —that they were okay here. He hated that it took so long for him to turn on his stool to face Ian, and give a nod in response. He hated that he couldn't just _be_ , even in this club, he couldn’t get out of his own fucking head for one night.

Ian settled between his legs, his hands resting on Mickey’s thighs as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. Everything else shut off, and didn’t fucking matter. Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s neck, bringing him closer, sighing when his boyfriend slowly dragged his tongue along the seam of his lips, coaxing him to open up. 

Mickey did, tasting the redhead’s mouth, inhaling every bit of him as he kissed him harder. He felt Ian’s fingers dig into his thighs a little bit as he pressed closer. Fuck, it was good. Mickey never got tired of kissing Ian, it never ceased to send a thrill up his spine.

“Let’s just go,” Mickey says against Ian’s lips. He didn’t want the drink anymore, he wanted to go home and be with Ian, wanted to feel all of him.

Ian nods, kissing him one last time before replying, “Okay, lets go.”

 

* * *

 

"M'so proud of you," Ian breathed. Mickey felt a swell in his chest, warmth on his skin. "Thank you, Mickey."

He grinned, trying to move away from Ian’s mouth as he drove home. Ian caught his neck again, hand gripping his inner thigh as he kissed and licked at Mickey’s skin. Ian’s breath ghosting over the wet trails he left behind gave him chills, Ian’s fingers digging against his jeans only heightening the feeling. He had half a mind to pull over right now and drop his pants.

“You gotta stop that shit before I fucking crash,” Mickey chuckled.

“We’re almost there. Can’t wait to get you back home so I can thank you properly,” Ian said against Mickey’s ear, teeth scraping the shell. His hand moved to cup Mickey’s hardening erection through his jeans, moving and squeezing gently; Mickey’s eyes rolled for a second, a groan slipping from his lips. “I can’t wait to feel all of you.”

Mickey let out a shaky breath, concentrating on his driving, “Fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” Ian said; Mickey felt the redheads grin against his neck as his hand kept moving, pressing against him harder, “Then, you’re gonna take me away this weekend, right? I wanna do whatever you tell me this weekend, want you calling all the shots. Would you like that?”

Fuck, he was so fucking hard now, his jeans trapping him, too tight; Ian still worked him over his pants, saying more shit right in his ear. Mickey couldn’t think. Instead of answering, Mickey took a hard right into their apartment building’s parking lot, quickly swinging into his parking spot.

He couldn’t wait the five fucking minutes it took to get up to the apartment. As soon as he put his car in park, he sliding his seat back so they had room (honestly it took too fucking long, it was the only time he wished he had one of those levers under his seat so he could shove away from the steering wheel in less than a second). 

Ian worked his pants open, pulling Mickey’s cock out so he could lean over and swallow him down. His mouth was hot and wet and tight around him; Mickey punched out a rough noise, head leaning back against the headrest, his fingers curling into Ian’s red hair.

“That —like that,” Mickey chanted, barely —more like slurred. Ian took him deep and quick into his mouth, tight around him, not wasting any time. “Oh my god, Ian — _fuck_.”

He felt it already, wave after wave crashing over him. Ian hummed around him, swallowing him down, holding tight around him, letting Mickey know that he could take it. Mickey hold onto the back of Ian’s head while he bucked his hips up sharply, punching out desperate grunts, fucking Ian rough and deep.

When he felt Ian’s hand curl over his inner thigh again, squeezing him lightly as he started bobbing his head again, Mickey thought he was breaking in two. It hit him hard then, “Okay, fuck —I’m… I’m…”

Ian’s hand squeezed him again, and Mickey let go, hands flying to grip the steering wheel, head jamming back against the headrest. He clenched his eyes shut as his body rocked with a shaking orgasm, relief and pleasure spidering out over every nerve ending, tingling through him. He was breathing so hard, so roughly, that his throat nearly gave out on him.

His chest heaved deeply as he sank back against his seat, barely realizing that Ian had tucked him back into his pants until the redhead reached for the side of his face, cupping his cheek to direct him into a kiss. Mickey hummed low as he licked into Ian’s mouth, tasting himself on his boyfriends tongue.

“So I guess you like that plan for the weekend,” Ian grinned against his mouth, kissing him lightly, peppering them over his mouth to his jaw. He gave Mickey some space, settling back against his own seat.

“Not the _whole_ weekend,” Mickey corrected, breathless, eyes fluttering open and closed a few times as he came down and tried to get control of his breathing. “But yeah I like that plan… so, you better get yourself fucking ready,” he grinned, looking over at Ian, one eyebrow raising.

Ian gave him a slow smile before he leaned over and pressed another kiss to Mickey’s lips, “I can’t wait.”

“S’couple days away,” Mickey reminded him, running his hands over his hair.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do anything until then,” Ian suggested.

Mickey looked over at Ian; Ian was looking right back at him, he blinked. They both cracked big smiles, punching out loud, hysterical laughter. Yeah fucking right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not thrilled with this chapter & I know it's on the shorter side.  
> It's somewhat of a filler/catch-up chapter, I guess.


	23. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..what.. is this? an update??

Mandy pushed her hair out of her face as she walked down the office hallway, folders cradled against her chest. She popped into one office to tell Mark about a meeting in five minutes, another office to tell the same to tell Barbara. Her heels clicked under her feet. The floor was cold, harsh, shiny tile in the cold, harsh, shiny building she worked in now. A phone rang through the weirdly muffled silence and soft sounds of paper shuffling.

When the office managing job was offered, she thought she’d be doing more than bitch-work. It felt like more assistant work, or secretary work. Preston said it was because she was just starting out, but Mandy wasn’t completely convinced. She ran around the damn office all day, telling people about meetings and moving files from one place to another… sometimes even getting Preston coffee. 

It would get better, she kept telling herself, it had only been a little over two weeks. It had to, otherwise she’d have to admit defeat and go back to the fucking garage (Preston would probably be really upset if she did that, would probably be really disappointed). At least _there_ she was the one people were bringing coffee _to_. 

Future, she reminded herself. Stick it out, get married, pop out a couple kids… you’re set. You’re good. Preston would take care of her. She’d have a nice life. A nice, _simple_ life. Picture perfect; that's what the goal was, right? That's what everyone wanted. Married, kids, comfortable life. Preston could give that to her.

“Hey Mandy,” she heard Preston’s voice call behind her in the hall. 

She turned around and gave him a soft smile, going to him, “What’s up?”

“You got that Zimmerman file on you?” he asked, all business.

Mandy paused for a second, her smile slipping before she looked through the files in her arms, “Uh… no, not on me.”

Preston huffed a breath, “Okay… if you’re not busy, can you bring it to me?”

“Yeah,” Mandy nodded, hesitating for a second while she realized that Preston wasn’t going to give her a little kiss or a touch on her lower back like he normally did. Today was busy though, and there was that meeting in five minutes; his mind was on other things.

“Thanks,” Preston sighed, then he started walking away. Mandy started walking to her office again before she heard her name being called again. She smiled; he hadn’t forgotten. But when she turned around, looking at Preston down the hall, he just held his hand up, making a drinking motion, “Can you bring me a coffee, too?”

Her stomach did a flip, but not in a good way. But she nodded. Stick it out, get married, pop out a couple kids… that's what everyone wants, that's the goal. 

 

* * *

 

“Shit,” Mickey sighed, checking his phone for the time. There was black smudgy grease stains all over his hands, smearing onto his phone. Fuck. Well, that’s great.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, leaning up against the side of the warehouse, eyes scanning the junkyard. It was quiet though, no need to get anxious for no reason. But his guys were about ten minutes behind, and the transport truck would be pulling up in about two minutes. Which gave about eight minutes of bullshitting around time, and while eight minutes wouldn't kill anyone, Mickey didn’t like to be bullshitting around like that. In and out, that's how they did business. No extra time where something could go sideways.

He normally kept a real tight ship… well, _Mandy_ normally kept a real tight ship, at the junkyard. Mickey didn’t like to admit that his sister was more of a bulldog than he was, when it came to this. His workers respected him, that wasn’t the problem. Mandy just had the touch; she was, in all fucking honesty, the scariest Milkovich kid out of the bunch. She was a boss bitch, end of story. She kept a cool head, but got shit done, while Mickey had a bad habit of letting his head get too hot, and running with it. Mickey's really fucking good at his job, good at running the business, but sometimes he wonders if it should have been Mandy all along.

“Almost done,” Iggy said, coming out of the warehouse. Mechanical whirs and clanks burst from the structure for a second while the door was open, ceasing when it slammed shut behind Mickey’s brother. “Getting back on track.”

“Good,” Mickey nodded. “They’re gonna be here any fucking second.”

Iggy breathed a little laugh as he popped a cigarette between his lips, “You are really fucking worked up today.”

“We’re ten minutes behind,” Mickey snapped. “We’re on a tight fucking schedule, everyone fucking knows that.”

Iggy nodded, blowing smoke from his nose, “Yeah, I know. Ay, you heard from Mandy lately?”

Mickey sucked on his teeth, “No, why?”

Iggy got quiet for a second while he kicked at the gravel under his feet, “Asha’s been tryna hang out with her for the past week. Mandy keeps coming up with some bullshit excuse.”

Mickey shook his head, “It’s that guy.” He knew it, somehow he just knew it had to do with Preston. He had tried to invite her over for dinner a couple times (Ian’s idea, honestly; after the Chris catastrophe, Ian had warmed right up to Mandy) but she cancelled both times, at the last minute. “I don’t like it, man. He’s pulling her away from the family.”

“You think?” Iggy asked. “Maybe she’s tryna get away. Maybe she's tired of this shit.”

Mickey sighed. Maybe Iggy was right. “I dunno… maybe. Just doesn’t feel right.”

If Mandy wanted out of the family business, no one was going to stop her. And who could fault for for that? It was a risk, everyone knew that. In this life, you constantly had to be on top of your game (couldn't be ten minutes behind schedule, couldn't allow room for the possibility of errors). But what she was saying to Mickey in the car —about Preston taking care of her, about the whole picket-fence life… that wasn’t Mandy. And dodging family —just dropping them like that? That definitely wasn’t Mandy. Right?

The door to the warehouse opened and Joey popped his head out, grinning, “All done.”

Mickey couldn't help but let out a relieved breath, “Thank _fucking_ god.”

 

* * *

 

The restaurant was bustling. Ian maneuvered expertly between tables and customers, holding his tray above his head, using his polite voice to excuse himself. He put down dishes of food, took away empty appetizer plates, and made his way back to the kitchens to load up for his next table.

“Packed tonight,” a girl with a sleek, dark ponytail commented next to him. Lydia —nice girl, but perpetually unimpressed with most things. Ian liked her.

“Yeah,” he sighed, grabbing his plates to carefully put them onto his serving tray. “This prick at table twelve sent back his pot-au-feu twice now. When Ginette brought it to him the second time, I thought she was going to dump it on his fucking head.”

Lydia snorted, “Let me guess… too much salt.”

Ian picked his tray up, “Actually—”

“He said the broth tasted like thyme-water,” Ginette, resident Head Chef, high eyebrows and a sneer on her mouth, came up behind the other side of the counter. She rattled off some angry sounding French, shaking her head, ending in, “ _Idiot!_ ”

Lydia’s eyes went wide as she snorted a laugh, “That’s a new one.”

“Yeah,” Ian grinned. “Her face went about ten shades of red when he popped off with that shit. Shoulda seen it.”

“Get those plates out!” Ginette called over to them from the line. “If my soufflé falls, I will drag that ginger ass all over Chicago!”

“Yes Chef,” both Lydia and Ian responded as they made their way out of the kitchen.

The rest of the night went by in a chaotic blur. Ian loved it. It wasn’t what he wanted to do with the rest of his life, at all, but waiting tables at a nice restaurant like this —making new friends and meeting new people— was really nice. Plus, he was good at charming customers, and getting to flex his people-skills without having to sell his body… fuck, it felt really good.

At the end of the night, everyone came together for a little meeting, just to go over how everything went. They had them every night, and it was more of a _send everyone home with extra food that’s going to be thrown out anyways_ kind of deal. The restaurant had a thing about not keeping extra food around. Everything had to be fresh. So Ian almost always brought home at least a leftover box full of sweets or savory dishes. Mickey loved it.

“You coming out with us, or are you going home to your man?” Marco, another server bumped his shoulder against Ian’s as everyone filed out of the restaurant. 

Ian grinned, “Heading home… we’re going away for the weekend, leaving tomorrow. I still have to pack.”

Marco wriggled his eyebrows as he slung an arm over Lydia’s shoulders (she rolled her eyes at him, but didn’t bother to shrug his arm off). “When’re you working next?”

“Monday night,” Ian replied, fishing his car keys from his pocket.

“You need to come out with us Monday then,” Lydia said. “No’s not an option.”

Marco nodded, “Bring your boyfriend, too.”

Ian paused, chewing on his bottom lip, “He might be busy.”

“Starting to think he doesn’t exist, Gallagher,” Lydia said in a little sing-song voice, teasing him.

He felt his cheeks heat up, “He exists, I promise. Just busy.”

“Alright, man,” Marco clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “See you Monday.”

Ian waved, heading towards where his car was parked, “See you guys! Have fun!”

 

* * *

 

Preston opened the front door of their apartment (his apartment, actually —but she’d recently moved in), and Mandy followed him inside, heels dangling from her fingers. The back of her neck was aching, as were her calves. It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to wearing heels all day, but having to run around the fucking office all damn day was slowly killing her, she was pretty convinced. Adding on staying late at the office and not really having anything to do while Preston worked on a project… she was exhausted.

“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” Preston said. “You wanna order in food, or cook, or something?”

Mandy took a deep breath and looked around the expensive place. Preston liked clean lines; it was all very masculine, with hard edges and somewhat modern furniture. “I can order something,” she said with a shrug.

“Unless you want to go out?” Preston suggested, reaching out to cup the side of her face with his hand. His skin was soft, and the way he brushed his thumb over her cheek made her lean into his touch.

“It’s late,” she murmured. “I’m just hungry and tired.”

“Okay,” he nodded. 

And then his hand was taken away, and he left her there in the hallway. It was quiet, until she heard the soft sounds of water running, and a glass door closing.  Mandy tucked her lips between her teeth for a moment, taking another big breath before she made her way into the kitchen to look for a take-out menu.

 

* * *

 

The smell of bacon woke him up. Ian stretched under the covers, tempted to snuggle back into the pillow and wait until Mickey came to get him for breakfast. Being woken up by Mickey was probably Ian’s favorite thing. It always involved his hands running over him in some way; Mickey showing that soft side, knowing how Ian was when he first woke up.

But he didn’t bury himself under the covers; he couldn’t, he was too excited. It felt like Christmas. Ian slipped out of bed and stretched again, grabbing his sweatpants that he’d left pooled by the bed the night before. He went into the bathroom real quick to brush his teeth and make sure that his hair wasn’t a complete mess (it was… he left it be). 

He grinned at the little cluster of hickeys along the cut of his hip, and the one under his collarbone. Ian loved that; he loved that Mickey could mark him like that now. It felt really fucking good.

When he got out to the kitchen, Mickey was finishing up cooking, dumping eggs onto two plates, with toast and bacon. How fucking lucky was Ian, seriously? Ian grinned, coming up behind Mickey, pressing into his back. After breakfast, they were going out to the house and… damn, he was so excited. His nerves cracked with electricity as Mickey leaned back into him, bringing his hands up and behind him to sink into Ian’s hair.

“Morning,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s neck, sliding one hand to cup the front of Mickey’s sweatpants, teasing him.

Mickey punched out a soft laugh, playfully shrugging him off. He handed Ian a plate and lead the way around to the other side of the counter, “Got more than enough time for that this weekend.”

“Gonna take care of me, Mick?” Ian grinned, sitting next to his boyfriend.

Mickey arched a brow at him, “Gonna put you through _hell_ , firecrotch.”

Ian rolled his eyes at the nickname, but his belly fluttered with anticipation.

After breakfast, Ian cleaned up the dishes while Mickey finished up packing (he only got to pack half of what he wanted last night before Ian came home from work and insisted on kissing him until neither one of them could breathe). While Ian was finishing up, and checking his bag to make sure he had his meds for the weekend, he felt a hand on his shoulder, getting his attention.

Ian stood, giving Mickey a questioning look, “What’s up?”

“I gotta say something before we go this weekend,” Mickey said. He was more serious now, chewing on his bottom lip. 

It kind of made Ian a little worried… they were supposed to leave for the weekend any second. Shit, if Mickey didn’t want to go, then that would be... fine —or if he couldn't go for _business_ reasons… less fine, but Ian would deal. That would really fucking suck though, and to be honest, Ian would more than likely be really fucking pissed, if _that_ were the case.

“You okay?” Ian asked.

Mickey nodded, his hand coming up to rub at his mouth, “I just… I need to say this.”

Ian frowned, “Okay…”

The longer the quiet stretched out, the more tense Ian’s shoulders got. Mickey opened his mouth a couple times, visibly struggling to say whatever it was he needed to. It was kind of hard to watch, so Ian took Mickey’s hand in his then leaned over to press a soft kiss to his full lips.

“Whatever it is, it’s okay,” Ian said. “It’s okay.”

Mickey nodded, kissing him back, a slow breath of relief leaving his lungs, ending in a very soft, but very clear, “I’m gay.”

Ian’s mind went blank for a second, because he’d briefly forgotten that this was actually a _very_ big deal for Mickey. He went blank because, to Ian, that was probably the most fucking obvious thing in the world. Yeah, no shit, Mickey’s gay — _of course_ he’s gay, where was the big news in that?

After that second passed, Ian grinned, a warmth filling him up, this ball of excitement and strange gratitude and love rolling all in one. “One more time?” He hoped he wasn’t asking too much.

Mickey wet his lips, louder this time, more sure this time, “I’m gay.”

Ian’s eyes stung. It was fucking beautiful and perfectly imperfect, and just so Mickey Milkovich. He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, kissing him softly, again and again, “Proud of you,” he breathed. “So fucking proud of you. Fuck, I love you.”

Mickey gave a soft laugh against Ian’s mouth, hands curling around his hips, “You’re so gay.”

“So gay for you. So gay like _you’re_ so gay.”

Mickey laughed again, kissing him back.

 

* * *

 

Mandy sat back in the patio chair, robe secured around her frame, feet propped up on the edge of the planter by the railing. She lit up a cigarette, eyes scanning her surroundings—downtown Chicago in the morning was foggy and beautiful. She felt like she was sitting in the clouds, skin feeling dewy and chilled.

Her coffee was a little too hot; she sipped it carefully, listening to the soft sounds of the city waking up around her. Saturday mornings were a little slow, but it was nice. At least she didn't have any work to worry about —no cars, or hearing Mickey stomping around the garage, barking orders, being a dick (he wasn’t always a dick, but when he got in his moods and when people weren’t doing their jobs… she really couldn’t blame him). Nothing but the city, and this cigarette, and a cup of coffee.

She sighed, taking a drag from her cigarette, closing her eyes as she listened to a loud beeping coming from the street —a truck backing up. She wasn’t bored, she kept telling herself. She wasn’t bored. It would just take some getting used to —maybe she could go to the market today, run a few errands…

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her robe. “Oh thank god,” she whispered, fishing it out to see who texted her. It was Asha — _free to go shopping today?_

Mandy caught her bottom lip between her teeth as guilt pooled in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t hung out with Asha in so long, always putting it off. She had a nine-to-five now though, and her and Preston liked their weekends in and… her life was changing so much; she knew she was making excuses, but it was true.

Sometimes Mandy wondered if Preston was fucking psychic or something. He popped his head out of the sliding glass door, giving her a little grin, “Hello beautiful.”

Mandy grinned back at him, pocketing her phone, “Hello yourself.” She stubbed her cigarette out, even though she had only taken a couple puffs, because Preston actually hated it a lot —wouldn’t kiss her until she brushed her teeth, said it was like kissing an ashtray. She could see that, she got it. It wasn’t the most attractive habit.

“You have plans for today?” he asked.

Mandy shrugged, “Asha just texted me, asking if I wanted to go shopping.”

Preston’s face fell, “Oh… okay.”

She took a breath, trying not to get frustrated with his obvious attempt to bait her —she took it, always did. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he shook his head, stepping out onto the patio. He leaned back against the railing, and Mandy’s heart flipped at the sight for a second; it always did —she hated when he did that, put his back towards the edge of such a high drop. It was illogical, because it was safe, but she couldn’t help it. “I just was going to ask you if you wanted to go to my dad’s for a bit… he’s having this big luncheon thing, gonna be mostly networking, but I thought you’d like it. Good food… champagne… those little crackers with cheese you like.”

That honestly sounded like hell. Mandy suppressed the eye roll, and the urge to gag at the thought. A bunch of balding uppity white men, har-har’ing at their dumbass “jokes”, and complaining about their wives. Yeah, that was _always_ right up Mandy's alley.

“Oh,” she hesitated. 

Preston was staring at her, giving her those puppy eyes, pleading with her to go. It looked good for him to have a nice piece on his arm, when his dad threw these things. Mandy wasn’t fucking stupid. It would be good for Preston too, with business. These luncheons were hell, but big business deals were made, and if Mandy’s presence helped her boyfriend out, then it would be kind of shitty of her not to go, wouldn’t it? 

“I can —I can reschedule with Asha,” Mandy offered.

He frowned and crouched down in front of Mandy, taking her hands in his, “If you have plans already though… it’s okay.”

It wasn’t though, not really. He’d get huffy. Later tonight, he’d ask her with that testy voice how her shopping was. And Mandy would feel like shit even more than she already did. Shopping was kind of unnecessary, wasn’t it? Compared to this little _event_ Preston’s father was throwing, it wouldn’t be the right move to go out with Asha today. Maybe tomorrow —maybe next weekend.

“I haven’t texted her back yet,” Mandy made herself smile. “Plus, I have that one dress I havent worn out yet —the one you bought me.” (very low cut in the back, on the verge of too short for business-function attire but Mandy had to admit that her tits looked great in it).

Preston cracked a wide, lascivious smile, “I love that dress.”

Mandy breathed a laugh, nodding, “I know you do.”

 

* * *

 

Ian curled his hands around the steering wheel as he drove. The road was winding, trees on either side of the long stretch of blacktop the sun sitting happily above in the sky. And next to Ian, in the passenger seat, Mickey was… sleeping (he had claimed that he was simply resting his eyes, but Ian wasn’t a fucking idiot —motherfucker was _sleeping_ ). 

He kept looking over to the brunette, resisting the urge to poke him, or tap the breaks a little to jostle him awake. They were _minutes_ from the house, and Ian had all these little visions running through his head of the two of them —of what Mickey would do to him. Fuck, he was half hard in his jeans; he reached down and palmed himself with a sigh, trying to relieve some of the pressure. Anticipation is a fucking bitch.

“Get your hand off your dick,” Mickey murmured from the passenger seat, startling Ian.

“How the…” he glared over at his boyfriend —who still had his eyes closed. 

Mickey’s eyes blinked open, and he grinned over at Ian, “I hear you sighing over there and shit. You’re tense as fuck, too.”

Ian grunted, turning onto the road that lead to the house as he mumbled (bitching) under his breath, “Not really fair, I messed with _you_ when you were driving the other day —got me all keyed up.”

“What was that? You whining?” Mickey asked, reaching a hand over to card through the back of Ian’s hair. His fingertips scrubbed at his scalp before squeezing the back of his neck. It was heaven. Ian kept his eyes on the road, but dipped his head forward a little, letting his shoulders relax from the touch.

“No,” Ian breathed. He pulled up in front of the house and put the car in park, turning the engine off.

Mickey leaned over, lips pressing against Ian’s neck. He nipped softly at his skin, sending chills down his spine, hand reaching down to grab at Ian through his pants, squeezing hard, but not too hard —hard enough to make Ian gasp, and pay attention.

“You ready for me?”

Ian nodded, eyes fluttering shut when Mickey latched his lips to the skin of his neck, sucking and tonguing at him gently, “Yeah —so fucking ready.”

Mickey rubbed his hand up and down against Ian’s clothed, hardening cock, squeezing him again. He dragged his teeth over the crook of his neck, then kissed a line up to his ear, “Go inside and sit your ass on the bed and wait for me.”

Ian’s mouth watered; he swallowed, stomach dropping, body hardening and heating up. He briefly closed his eyes, feeling Mickey’s hand tighten over him again. His hips bucked a little as he caught his breath. Fucking hell, Mickey really _was_ going to put him through hell, wasn’t he? Shit.

“Gonna have a hard time walking tomorrow,” Mickey said, his hand slipping away. Ian couldn’t bite back the whine that slipped through his lips. 

“Fuck,” Ian breathed, turning his head, catching Mickey’s lips in a kiss. 

He reached over and grabbed for the back of his neck, kissing him greedy but slow — _I love you_ , Mickey breathed into his mouth; Ian breathed it back. Mickey pressed his hand firmly against Ian’s crotch again, kneading gently, sending splintering bursts of want through his body. He leaned over more while his other hand slipping into the back of Ian’s hair, fingers curling into the strands. Ian panted into the kiss, fumbling with his seatbelt, swearing he was about to fucking explode; his skin ached for Mickey, ached for release right here and now.

“Go inside,” Mickey pulled away from the kiss, sinking back into his seat, pulling entirely away from Ian. 

Ian took a couple deep breaths, trying to settle himself. He was so fucking hard, and more than ready to drop his pants right here and now. But he nodded, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is partially an expansion of the last chapter, going more into what Mandy's up to & her relationship with Preston, and obviously... Mickey finally said it :') -which was important to me & I think a big step for Mickey. Kinda funny writing it, a little bit, because obviously that boy gay af, everybody knows he gay af... but like, you know.. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the patience and love -I'm working on a few things right now, and _life_ happens, but TBE is still going! Next chapter or two is gonna be mostly smut. You know how we do.


	24. Weekend Pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS ALL SMUT. THAT IS ALL IT IS.  
> AND SOME FLUFF. BUT MOSTLY SMUT.
> 
> Also, I did a lightening fast edit on this, please excuse any misspellings or odd words that I missed.

He was still so fucking hard, and it showed no signs of flagging anytime soon. Ian sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands over his denim covered knees —should he strip down? Fuck, he hadn’t been this flustered in a long time. You’d think that he was some kind of inexperienced little shit right now, you’d never know that he had a pretty hefty résumé under his belt. Mickey did this to him, and he loved it. He felt so fucking… alive, like his nerves were made of electric and fire.

Mickey came through the bedroom doorway, carrying their bags. He didn’t even look at Ian as he took their bags to the closet, and Ian grinned at that, his chest swelling because he hadn’t seen _this_ Mickey in a while.

When Mickey came back from putting their bags away, he was carrying something in his hands. Ian’s mouth watered, seeing the black box. _The_ black box. Mickey smirked at him, breaking that ‘ _boss’_ face for a second, breathing a little laugh —Ian realized that his mouth was hanging open, his eyes wide. He quickly fixed his face, watching his boyfriend set the box on the bed next to him.

“C’mere,” Mickey said.

Ian stood immediately, before Mickey even finished the word. He went to him, body humming and wanting when Mickey put his hand on the back of his neck and drew him in for a kiss. Ian was nearly shaking with anticipation… it seemed like he’d been waiting for this for fucking _years_. He ran a thousand scenarios in his head, of how Mickey would take him, how Mickey would work him into a frenzy. Fuck, he was so hard, aching and straining against his jeans.

“I love you,” Mickey breathed into his mouth. “So fucking good for me.”

Ian’s insides lit up and melted all at once, “I love you too.”

Mickey sucked on his top lip while he walked him backwards towards the bed. Ian whined a little when the kiss broke off; he fell backwards onto the bed, taking his shirt off when Mickey told him to. He did it quickly, tugging it off and throwing it behind him somewhere.

“Damn,” Mickey breathed as he climbed on top of Ian, pressing against him, slipping his knee between Ian’s legs while they kissed again. “You ready?” Mickey asked between hot, slow kisses.

“Yes,” Ian breathed back, stifling a moan when Mickey reached between them to cup him through his jeans, working him through the fabric. It was fucking torture. “Yes —I’m ready, _fuck_.”

Mickey trailed his mouth down Ian’s chin, to his neck, nipping and dragging his tongue over the skin. Ian closed his eyes and took deep breaths, getting swept away in the feeling of that warm breath, and the hand squeezing and stroking him over his jeans.

“One sec,” Mickey said, sitting up, taking away his warmth, and mouth, and hand. Ian bit his lip to stop himself from whining; his skin was aching and wanting so badly, he moved involuntarily, stretching out on the bed, needing Mickey’s touch again.

He hadn’t been paying attention, when he looked at Mickey again, his boyfriend was on his knees between Ian’s legs, holding the box in his hands. Ian swallowed hard, propping himself up on his elbows to see what Mickey was going to do. The first thing he thinks of when he sees the box, and sees the heated look in Mickey’s eyes, are those fucking beads.

Ian knows that’s probably not his boyfriend’s plan, but he says, “Not gonna be able to fit those giant things in my ass, babe.”

Mickey broke his boss face again and laughed, eyes rolling, “Not gonna put those giant things in your ass, _babe_.”

He grinned, sitting up. They’re so close and the box bumps against Ian’s chest, but he doesn’t move back to give more space. He looks down into the box, then up at Mickey, “What’re you gonna do to me?”

Mickey wets his lips, setting the box aside. “I want you to pick one,” he says, pulling out his two plugs, the larger and the smaller one.

Ian’s body heats up, floods with even more anticipation. He swallows hard, swallows again, not sure if it’s because he’s so fucking horny and ready to go, or if he’s feeling particularly confident right now, but he takes the larger plug out of Mickey’s hand. 

It’s not _scary_ big, it’s definitely not bigger than Mickey’s cock, but Ian knows that it’ll make him a quivering, needy mess. It’ll get the fucking job done, get him ready for Mickey to sink into him with no problem.

“Lay back,” Mickey’s voice is thick when he says it. Ian wants to kiss him so bad, but he follows Mickey’s direction, laying back down on the bed. “Keep your hands at your sides.”

The plug and lube is set next to him; he shivers, watching Mickey’s tattooed hands work his pants open, carefully pulling them down his legs with his boxers. Ian lifts his hips to help, fists clenching and unclenching. He’s so fucking tense.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian sighs. 

Mickey’s mouth is on his ribs, kissing and licking at his skin; he sucks marks down his side as one hand slides up Ian’s sternum, up his throat, fingers brushing over his lips. Ian opens his mouth, shivering when Mickey’s fingers push inside; Ian sucks and runs his tongue over the digits, breathing heavy around them as Mickey’s mouth works lower. He feels more marks being sucked onto his skin, around his hip; Mickey’s pushing his fingers in and out of Ian’s mouth a few times before they slip out, leaving him gasping and writhing under the brunette.

He feels hot breath ghost over his cock —he’s aching, leaking all over himself. Fuck, he just wants Mickey inside of him. He wants it hard, he wants Mickey to hold him down and bury inside of him over and over until neither one of them can take it anymore. 

“Please,” Ian breathes, fists clenching by his sides again. His hips rock a little, bumping the head of his cock against Mickey’s lips. “Please Mickey.”

He feels a breath of a soft laugh before Mickey moves fluidly, rocking back on his heels again, grabbing Ian under his knees, moving his legs up. Ian’s exposed, pretty much folded in half, and before he knows it, Mickey’s laying on his stomach below him, still pushing his legs up and out, and dragging his tongue over Ian’s ring of nerves. His tongue is so hot and slick, and feels fucking perfect.

“Ah, shit,” Ian whimpers, curling his hands around the back of his knees. 

Mickey is taking his time, lapping at him, breathing hard against his perineum. He licks long, fat stripes from Ian’s hole to his balls, over and over, pushing against the tight ring of muscle, grunting against him like it’s taking everything in him not to lose control. It’s so fucking hot, and feels so fucking good; Ian’s got goosebumps, his legs shaking under his hands. 

The only noises are sick wet slurping sounds, Ian’s mouth rattling off curses and moaning like a fucking porn-star, and Mickey’s heavy breathing. Everything else is dead quiet, and it makes it more intense, somehow —the quiet has that edge that makes it _feel like_ someone could walk in and catch them at any time. Ian drowns in it, drowns in the vibrating pleasure taking over his nerves, drowns in the noises, the feel of Mickey’s hands grabbing at his ass, spreading him open with a hard grip.

When Mickey sits up again, taking his mouth away, Ian keens in distress, “Mickey, please.”

His boyfriend doesn’t say anything back, just shoots him a look that is probably supposed to tell him to chill, but it only adds to Ian’s need. Ian’s sweating, and shaking, and watching Mickey lube his fingers up before he feels those fingers teasing him, pushing at him, getting him to open up.

“So good for me,” Mickey whispers; it warms Ian. “That's my guy.”

“Fuck,” Ian draws the word out long, taking deep breaths while Mickey pushes one of his fingers into him. “Can I let my legs down?” he barely gets out —it’s all mushed and breathy.

“No,” Mickey replies. “Keep ‘em like that. Ass looks so good right now,” he continues, finger pumping in and out, his free hand’s thumb is trailing a slow line up and down Ian’s perineum now, and it’s about to break him, he swears.

“God, I want you,” Ian groans, losing control of his words. Mickey is teasing another finger into him, just barely. He hasn’t touched his prostate yet, but he’s gotten close. That fucking thumb rubbing that line against him will be the death of him. “ _Please_ , can you just fuck me now? I’ll do whatever you want later, I just need you. Fuck, Mick.”

That second finger pushes inside, and Ian almost loses his grip on his legs. “If you think I’m gonna fuck you without beating your ass…” Mickey gave a soft laugh.

His fingers were sliding in and out of him fluidly now; Ian couldn’t react to Mickey’s words, because he was so hypnotized by the feel getting fucked by tattooed fingers, pushing in deep, pulling out slow. He felt the drip of more lube, making the motion even easier than before. Ian could barely fucking breathe, could barely think beyond _more_. He barely registered the rhythmic, short moans that spilled from his own lips.

“You ready for it?”

Ian swallowed hard, nodding his head, not looking away from the ceiling because if he did that, he wasn’t sure how long he would last. If he looked at Mickey right now… fuck. “M’ready.”

Fingers slipped out, rubbed at him, slipped back in, then out, then back in until finally they were gone again and Ian was dizzy. He ached from the loss, feeling utterly empty and wanting. But then something dull pressed against him, somewhat small, teasing his opening. Mickey took his time again; more lube dripped, the plug teasing in and out, pressing forward, pulling back, deeper and deeper every time, stretching him open until…

“Good,” Mickey says, “take it just like that.”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Ian gasped deeply, feeling the stretch of the thickest part of the toy before Mickey pushed further inside until it was set in place, brushing against his prostate. “Oh my god —Mickey, _fuckfuckfuck!_ ” he panted.

His skin is on fire; he’s in a haze as his legs are brought down. Mickey goes away for only a second, and Ian hears rustling, like he's cleaning his hands off quickly. Then he's back, and his hands are sliding over Ian's thighs, gentle and gripping the muscle, moving up to his hips, his sides, then back down. Ian’s body moves on it’s own accord, hips rolling just slightly, shoulders pushing back against the bed; every time he moves, Ian can feel the toy inside him, rubbing against his insides, ghosting over his prostate. He’s not sure how long he’s going to last with this inside him.

“C’mere,” Mickey’s voice cuts through his haze. A spark jolts up Ian’s back as he sits up and his hand instinctually goes for his erection. Mickey grabs his wrists, directing his hands away from his cock, “Uh-uh.”

Ian curses under his breath, letting his body be pulled to stand. He hums and breathes deep, still feeling the toy inside of him, brushing his prostate. Ian closes his eyes tight, feeling Mickey move behind him, touch gentle. 

Ian shivers when he feels cool metal slip around his wrist —hears the stark _click-click-click_ of handcuffs. His eyes open, and the corner of his mouth pulls up in what he’s sure is a salacious smile, because as soon as his hands are cuffed behind his back, Mickey is directing him to sink down to his knees next to the bed.

God, he can barely handle this already. Mickey’s standing in front of him now, cupping the side of his face, moving his fingers to brush under his jaw; Ian leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a second. It’s so hard to concentrate because his mouth is watering, chest tightening; he pulls gently against he cuffs, testing their strength. He’s not going anywhere.

“You good?”

Ian nods, “Perfect.”

Mickey hums his appreciation of that, fingers moving from Ian’s jaw to his mouth; Ian opens up once more for two tattooed fingers, letting them slip into his mouth. He looks up at Mickey, seeing all that heat in those blue eyes, seeing the raw want.

“How’s that plug feeling?” Mickey’s voice is thick as he asks, but he grins a little, just barely. Ian hums in response; it feels fucking great. While Mickey slips his fingers from Ian’s mouth, he works his pants open with his other hand, “Keep your mouth open.”

Ian does, jaw dropped, watching Mickey intensely, trying not to focus too much on the toy, or the fact that he’s still achingly hard, wanting to be touched and fucked and marked up. It’s hard to stay patient, but he does his fucking damnedest.

When Mickey grabs a fistful of his hair and pushes into his mouth, Ian feels the muscles in his entire body instantly relax, sinking further on his knees. The toy hits that spot again, and he moans heavily around Mickey’s cock, taking him deeper until it’s impossible for him to breathe. He looks up into blue eyes, keeping still, holding out. He doesn’t need to breathe yet, and Mickey tests him further, holding deep inside his mouth —his throat.

“Good,” Mickey praises him. It’s perfect, his other hand slipping down to brush his fingers over the column of Ian’s throat, teasing like he was going to wrap around him there, but he doesn’t. “Look so fucking good on your knees for me, baby.”

He tastes like warmth and flesh and everything right and good in the world. Mickey tastes so fucking good, and feels so fucking good; Ian’s nose buries into the soft patch of dark hair, humming softly around his boyfriend’s cock. 

Then it’s time to breathe, and he wishes it wasn’t time to breathe yet, he likes this too much to let go now, but his body protests, and Mickey senses it right away, pulling from his mouth. Ian gasps for air, breathing heavily, but keeps his mouth open for more. He gets more, gets his fill.

Having Mickey fuck his mouth while his hands are cuffed behind him, and a plug is set perfectly inside of him is near heaven. He kneels on the floor for his boyfriend and keeps his wanting mouth open, ignoring how messy he gets, ignoring the sick sticky ropes of spit and precome slipping down his chin. The plug brushes his prostate here and there, and he moans every time. Every fucking time —he can’t help it, even if he wanted to. Ian just lets go, gives in.

Mickey’s talking to him in between his heavy grunts and breathing; it’s hard to focus on the exact words, but he’s saying how good Ian is, how good he looks, how good he feels. Ian wonders if he could come just like this. Just from the toy and blowing Mickey, and from words —can you come from words? He feels like he could right now. He wants it so fucking bad, he wan’t to scream.

So instead he focuses on Mickey, looking up at the brunette, listening to those noises he makes, the words he says. Ian’s jaw is aching; his scalp is tender from his hair being held on to so tightly; his knees are starting to hurt. But it’s all worth it. Because the way Mickey’s cock slides between his lips so effortlessly, fucking him deep and intensely like this, making Mickey feel this fucking good, wanting to make him come —god, it’s everything to Ian right now. It’s all he wants.

“ _Fuck_ , Ian,” Mickey grunts, pushing deeply into Ian’s mouth, holding there. Ian swallows him down, pushing forward until his eyes sting, trying to take even more, trying to make his boyfriend feel good, that’s all he cares about right now. 

Mickey’s hips stutter a bit before he pulls out of Ian’s mouth. Ian is left gasping and pleasantly woozy. He’s gone, letting his head fall forward when Mickey lets go of his hair; his messy, slick mouth pants and whines a little, he can’t control it. He’s so fucking hard —leaking, aching, wanting to be touched.

Fingers are back in his hair, pulling his head back. Mickey looks down at him with blue eyes that are soft, but heated. Mickey loves him; Ian feels his eyes sting a little, opens his mouth again for his boyfriend. Mickey loves him, he knows this. He loves him so much, and Ian loves him too. Such an odd time to be getting caught up in that, Ian knows, but he can’t help it.

Mickey’s other hand is stroking himself; Ian leans forward, trying to get his mouth back on his boyfriend’s cock, but Mickey tightens his grip in his hair, making him stay. 

“Should see yourself right now,” Mickey’s voice is dark and heavy —thick with want; Ian can taste it in the air. “Fucking mess. Look so good. Damn, baby. You make me come, and then I’ll take care of you… okay?”

Ian feels so warm and full from his boyfriend’s words. He tries to respond with, “Uh-huh,” as best he can, keeping his mouth open, staring up at Mickey, wanting to be the best he’s ever been, wanting to be everything. As soon as he says that, Mickey is pushing back into his mouth, making Ian’s jaw ache a little more, making him futilely pull against the restraint of the handcuffs, making him whine low and long. 

Mickey punches out a loud grunt, “So _fucking_ good for me,” he says, hips stuttering. He stares down at Ian as he fucks his mouth, and Ian can tell by how his breathing shifts that he’s close to coming apart. 

There’s a sick, wet noise that belongs in a porno movie. A sucking, too-wet, squelching sound that is secretly one of Ian’s favorites, especially when he’s on this end of that sound. He moans from it. Mickey moans because of his moan, “That fucking mouth —so fucking pretty… should — _fuck_ — just like that, that's my guy. So good.”

Ian sucks hard, pushing Mickey over the edge, and taking everything he was given, swallowing down every bit. Mickey let go of his hair as a stream of curses and grunts was flowing from his mouth, telling Ian again and again how good he was.

Ian hummed, taking over, moving his lips up and down Mickey, gently finishing him off until Mickey couldn’t take it anymore. Then Ian was still in his daze, breathing so hard, letting his eyes slip closed as he basked in the moment. 

His eyes opened again when he felt Mickey’s hand wipe at his mouth, barely cleaning his messy mouth and chin off before a full mouth pressed heavily against his tender, swollen lips. Ian groaned and kissed Mickey back as best he could, wishing he could wrap his arms around his boyfriend. The metal cuffs kept him in place, not too tight, but tight enough.

It was then that Ian realized that Mickey was on his knees now too, pressed against his body while he kissed him. He leaned into Mickey, keening when his bottom lip was bitten and sucked gently at, and when hands curled around his shoulders, gently squeezing and massaging the soft ache they were developing. Mickey rubbed up and down his biceps, not too gentle but not too hard, just the right pressure to take care of him; and he takes care of him so fucking good.

His hips canted on their own accord, chasing friction, pressing his straining erection against Mickey (he’d pulled his pants back up, and the texture of his jeans felt scratchy but nice). Then Mickey stood up, taking away his warmth; Ian whined, watching him, chewing on his bottom lip, waiting for whatever came next. Fuck, he wanted everything. Whatever Mickey would give him, Ian wanted it. 

“C’mere,” Mickey breathed, helping Ian to move, gripping his upper arms hard as he directed Ian. Mickey sat on the edge of the bed and smirked at Ian, pulling him down to lay face down over the edge of the bed. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but Ian wasn’t focused on that, too wound up from anticipation. Damn, he was shaking a little. 

It was happening. Ian breathed hard through his nose, pressing the side of his face into the mattress below him, feeling fingers curl in the back of his hair, keeping him still there, while another hand slid down the length of his spine, then over his cuffed wrists, sliding over the metal.

“You want me to make you as red as your fucking hair?” Mickey’s voice was thick as he asked. He trailed his palm over the curve of Ian’s ass, making him shiver. Then his fingers slid down the base of the toy, pressing lightly, moving it in such a way to make Ian shiver again, unable to stop the moan from slipping from his lips. 

“Yes,” Ian whispered. “Please.”

Mickey’s touch, hypnotizing and slow, ran over each cheek, teasing him, lulling him to relax, “You sure?” When he asked the question, Ian could hear the smile in his voice. 

Ian was too gone, too caught up to throw a cheeky comment back, matching his boyfriends teasing. He just nodded, feeling Mickey’s fingers tighten a little in his hair, moaning out a low “Yes, _fuck_ , please Mick,” when the brunette’s fingers pressed against the base of the toy again. Jesus, he really wasn't sure how long he was going to last with that thing rubbing against all the right spots.

The first hit didn’t hurt at first. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh cracked through the quiet room, making Ian jump little, but it took a second until the sting hit, followed by the warmth. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Ian drew the word out with a groan; he pressed his face against the blankets. He shivered. He grinned —he let out a rough laugh as his hips pressed down against the bed, looking for friction on instinct. He had forgotten how much he loved that shit.

“Yeah,” Mickey’s voice was thick with want as his fingers danced over Ian’s skin, right over where he hit him.

Another came, a different spot, but the same amount of force, taking Ian’s breath away. Then another. And another. Ian’s hips canted a little against the bed when Mickey paused here and there to pet at his warm, tingling skin, rubbing gently before getting a firm handful, and then hitting him again.

“Taking it so good,” Mickey told him. “Ass is so fucking hot right now, all bright and pink.”

Ian swallowed down large breaths of air, eyes closing from the feel of Mickey petting him still, fingers pressing against the base of the toy yet again, easing the pain, the sting, with pleasure. God, it was so fucking good. He wanted more, wanting Mickey to leave bruises, to make it hard for him to move tomorrow. It was almost sick, but he wanted it —needed it. Needed Mickey’s marks on him —in him.

There was a dull ache in his arms, around his wrists from the cuffs, but it didn’t matter. Mickey brought his hand down again. And again, slapping Ian’s skin, making it sting, making his hips jerk and heavy noises spill from his lips. Every time Mickey’s hand connected with Ian’s ass, he gasped or groaned; he felt himself break apart, felt himself tense up from a particularly sensitive blow —or relax and shiver from a gentle hand sweeping over his tingling skin. He lost count after seven; each hit was calculated, and hard, given time to settle before the next one. Were they on ten? Who fucking cares. Ian didn't care.

He was close. So fucking close. And his skin was so damn hot, _throbbing_. The toy touched him just right. Mickey touched him just right. Then he shifted to lie on the bed along side Ian, his hand petting him, and pressing gently against the toy, making Ian see stars, making him keen softly for more. Ian could feel how hard Mickey was again, could feel him pressing against his hip. Fuck; Ian moaned in the back of his throat, simply from feeling how fucking keyed up his boyfriend was from this.

Mickey kissed him. Soft. Simple. Gentle touch not letting up, taking care of him, loving on him. “How’re you doing?”

Ian could barely speak, but he nodded, forcing his eyes to open to look into Mickey’s blue ones, “M’good,” he slurred out.

Mickey’s dark brows raised a little, “You sure?”

Ian nodded again, clearing his throat to answer again, “I’m good.”

That got a grin out of Mickey. He trailed his hand from Ian’s ass to his lower back and hip, rubbing over his skin in long, pressured strokes as he spoke, “You’re being so good for me, taking all of this. Fucking gone, huh?”

Ian hummed in response, body warming up even more. Yes, yes he was. “Wanna come,” he confessed.

Mickey’s touch was hypnotizing, as always, and Ian felt his muscles relax, felt himself give into the temptation of getting lost in the moment. He trusted Mickey so much, with his whole body, with his whole life, that he didn’t even question it. He just gave himself over, barely registering that his hips were still rocking, just slightly, against the bed.

“I know,” Mickey murmured, his hand trailing back to Ian’s ass, rubbing over his tingling skin, going back to the base of the toy. His fingers gripped the edges of it that time, tugging gently. “I know you wanna come —wanna come so fucking bad, huh? This feel good?”

Ian’s eyes rolled back, feeling Mickey move the toy around inside of him, feeling him tug on it, like he was going to take it out. He babbled nonsense, pushing his ass into Mickey’s touch, saying something that might have sounded like _yes_ or _please_ , but he wasn’t even sure.

“Deep breaths,” Mickey whispered.

Ian opened his mouth, pressing the side of his face against the bed, breathing hard. Mickey moved, leaving his line of sight, sitting back up while he hand was still teasing him. He heard the sound of a cap opening, felt drips of lube drop onto his skin, where the toy was buried inside of him, dripping down; he shivered. Mickey’s fingers were slick, touching him everywhere around the toy, pressing against his perineum, then back to the toy. 

“Move up to your knees,” Mickey told him, moving off the bed.

It was a slight struggle, but Ian managed to do it, ass high in the air, face down, erection heavy between his legs. Totally fucking exposed for his boyfriend. He panted, clenching his hands, pulling on his restraints a little. The silence in the room was overwhelming him again. So heavy, and with Mickey behind him, rubbing the lube slowly, all around the toy, around his stretched rim… fuck, it felt like someone could walk in. The silence was on the verge of too much, but Ian liked it, it pushed him further towards the edge.

“Taking it out,” Mickey told him, gripping the base of the toy, tugging on it again, but this time, he kept kept pulling. Slowly, so fucking slow. 

Ian felt his skin shudder, felt himself open up, stretching around the widest part of the toy. He whined. He took deep breaths. His skin felt slick and hot, starting to sweat. Mickey pulled on the toy, easing it out, pushing it back in, easing it out a little more, gripping his ass, holding him open with his other hand. Back in, back out, almost all the way out, almost all the way in. 

“Please,” Ian gasped, pushing back. He shook. He bowed and arched his back. He wiggled around, unable to control anything at this point. He was going to fucking come, he could feel it, he was right fucking _there_. “Mickey, please —I’m gonna, fuck, I’m gonna come, please.”

“You’re gonna come, huh?” Mickey’s voice was dusted with a tease as he finally eased the toy out. Ian felt empty and wanting. He grunted loud. He ached so bad, needing to be filled up. Fuck, he felt desperate. And then fingers pushed inside of him, pressing against his prostate while Mickey finally touched his cock, wrapping his other hand around the base, squeezing firmly. “Not yet.”

Mickey rubbed at his prostate as he kept him from coming. Ian all but fucking growled, hips canting, trying to fuck his boyfriends hand. Tremors shook his body. “I —I, Mickey, I…”

“Tell me,” Mickey said, not letting up on his prostate. “Tell me how bad you want to get fucked —how bad you wanna be marked up inside.”

His knees trembled under him before he slowly collapsed, unable to hold himself up anymore, ass pushed out, knees tightly bent, arms uncomfortable yet forgotten behind him. Mickey didn’t let up. He moved with Ian, adjusting his hold on him, the angle of his fingers inside of him.

“Tell me,” Mickey prompted. “Tell me, and I’ll give you what you need.”

Tell him what? Ian couldn’t think. He took a couple deep breaths, letting out moans with each one, moving to press his forehead against the bed. He remembered then, trying to center himself. “Please,” he mumbled, barely able to open his mouth to speak. “Mick, please. I…” he trailed off when Mickey slipped another finger into him. Three inside him now. Fuck, he was _really_ working him open. It was gonna be so good, so slick, when he pushed inside him. “Need you. Need you to fuck me, Mick. S’good, feel so fucking… good, feel so good, please…”

Evidently, it was sufficient enough. Mickey worked rather quick, given the current situation. He slipped his fingers out of Ian, and wiped his hands off, then went for the cuffs, a key struggling to unlock the restraints. Ian could’ve sang when they came off, arms falling to either side of him. His shoulders ached still, but he knew Mickey would take care of him later. Right now, he didn’t care. He just wanted to _not_ feel empty, wanted everything that Mickey could give him.

And then those shaking, desperate hands slid down his back, gripping him, touching him everywhere, one pressing down on the small of Ian’s back as Mickey fucking finally pushed inside him, it was easy, just like he knew it would be. 

“Oh my god,” Ian shivered as his boyfriend bottomed out, pushing deep inside of him.

Mickey curled his hands around his hips, holding him there, breathing hard. Ian felt every inch of him. Nothing between them. The was the first time Mickey was inside him without protection and… “Fucking perfect,” Mickey whispered. Ian couldn’t’ve agreed more.

It was so good. Mickey fucked him hard, holding him down, pushing into him over and over, bringing his hand down a couple times to give his ass a hard smack. The air was full of the filthy sound of slapping skin, and moans. Ian stretched his sore arms in front of him, fisting the bedding, before reaching back with one hand so he could grab onto Mickey’s thigh while he pushed backwards. 

His orgasm danced on that edge still, he could feel it continue to build with every thrust that Mickey gave him, with every time his ass stung from another hit. No talking this time, just chasing the fuck, chasing the orgasm. It was hot, and focused, and hard.

Mickey fell on top of his back, fucking into him, short but deep thrusts, rubbing against that sweet spot, making Ian see stars. He grunted and gasped under the brunette, fingers digging into Mickey’s thigh, pulling on him, uttering a single pained-sounding word of _more_. Right there, he was right fucking _there_. Mickey bit the back of his shoulder. His hands slid up Ian’s sides, up his ribs, curling around, under him, over his chest, one seeking out his throat, the other slipping out from under him to go for the back of his neck.

Ian got chills, nodding his head, “Yes,” answering Mickey’s silent question.

“Come for me,” Mickey told him, his grip tightening around his throat. “Don’t fucking touch yourself, you don’t need it. You come for me, I’ll give you what you want.”

More chills. He nodded again, feeling more pressure on either side of his throat. His whole body tensed up for a second before he completely relaxed into everything, hand falling from gripping Mickey’s leg, shoulders and face pressing down, further into the bed. His whole body rocked with every thrust, static filled every part of him, vibrating _push push push push_ —Mickey fucking into him rhythmically, rocking against that spot, making him fall apart.

He’d never come untouched before. Never, not once. But when Mickey squeezed around his throat a little tighter while his lips pressed against his ear, “Come for me, baby. Show me how good you are for me. I know how fucking good you are, show me.” 

That was it.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He shook as he came, gasping for deep breaths as Mickey released the hold around his throat. The noises Ian was making were filthy and loud, sobbing noises that belonged in the same porno that those wet noises belonged in, from before. And then Mickey’s hips started stuttering, pushing deep into Ian’s sensitive body. He grunted and cursed harshly while Ian tried to move his hand back again to touch him, barely able to reach back and brush his fingers against his hip.

It was hot. It felt good. Full. Mickey marked him on the inside —and Ian smiled so fucking big, mouth open and small mewing noises spilling from his lips. Mickey’s hips slowly stopped moving as he kiss tiebacks of Ian’s shoulders. Tongue and lips, lazy kisses, soft whispers of praise that Made Ian feel all fluttery. He was so in love with Mickey fucking Milkovich. So in love, and Mickey loved him right back and everything was just… fuck, it was good.

The feeling of the brunette easing from his body, of warm wet dripping out of him, from fingers trailing over the length of his spine… Ian shivered as he caught his breath, unable to move. So he let Mickey take care of him, like he always did. Let him move him around, stretching his legs out finally, rolling to his side. Mickey kissed him while he ran his hands over his sweat-damp skin.

“I’ll be right back, don’t move,” he said.

Ian felt his eyes get heavy; he closed them as he nodded, naked and spent. Boneless.

And Mickey took care of him, coming back like he promised, pulling gently on him, bringing him to the bathroom to clean him up. Ian sat on the ledge in the shower —sat on a folded up wet towel, a little cushion for his tender ass. That made him smile.

“So good to me,” Ian murmured as Mickey cleaned him, Soapy hands gliding all over, standing between his legs. He kissed him soft, trilling his hands up and down his arms, his back, his chest. Mickey tasted so good, and Ian hummed, not willing to end their kiss just yet.

After he was all cleaned up, Mickey quickly washed himself and then silently wrapped a towel around his hips, hand sliding into place in Ian’s, linking their fingers. “Come with me,” Mickey said. Ian followed, grinning at the bed as they walked out of the bedroom. God, that was good. So fucking good. 

“We’re sleeping in here tonight?” Ian asked, following Mickey into a guest room. It was very basic, but nice. White bedding, a window that looked out to the glittering lake, currently covered by sheer curtains. It was calming.

“Yeah, our bed’s a wreck, and I don’t wanna fuck with it right now,” Mickey replied, slipping his hand out of Ian’s. “Jump in bed, I’ll be back.”

“Soon?” Ian asked, brows arching. He didn’t really wanna be waiting long, if Mickey had to make a quick call to his brothers. He was promised a weekend with all that, anyways.

Mickey nodded, leaning over to press a soft, short kiss to his lips, “Two minutes,” he said before leaving the room.

Ian smirked a little, then dropped his towel and climbed in the soft bed, wincing a little at how his ass stung when he sat down. It was okay though, more than okay. He moved to lay on his side, under the covers, taking the pressure off his ass; he reached behind him and put a hand on his skin. Fucking hot under his touch, skin prickly with sensitivity.

After a minute, Ian stretched out with a loud sigh, moving to lay on his stomach, full starfish in the middle of the bed. The sheets were cool against his hot skin, and felt amazing. Soft bed. Sore ass. Love of his life taking care of him. Didn’t get much better than this, if you asked Ian. He grinned, snuggling down into the mattress, closing his eyes. They needed this weekend. 

Ian was wore out, almost asleep by the time Mickey walked back into the room. “Hey big guy,” the brunette murmured, climbing into bed with Ian, reaching for him, kissing the back of his shoulder. 

“Mm,” Ian hummed. Mickey felt so good against him, skin on skin, tangled up under the blankets. He turned in his boyfriends arms, so they were facing each other, legs slotted, pressed tightly together. “Missed you.”

Mickey breathed a soft laugh, hand running up and down Ian’s back, stopping up at his shoulders to gently grip the muscles there, where he knew Ian was sore. “Told you I'd be right back.”

Ian shrugged, opening his eyes to see Mickey’s blue ones staring right back at him. God, he loved his eyes. So blue. Beautiful. Mickey was beautiful. Dark lashes around those blue eyes, freckles, full lips. 

“I love you,” Ian whispered.

Mickey kissed him, “Love you,” he whispered back, hand still gently petting at Ian, all over, lulling him to keep relaxing. 

They kissed lazy like that for a while. Mickey gently tracing his tongue over Ian’s lips, slowly pushing inside. It gave Ian butterflies as he pressed even closer. Ian tightened his arm around Mickey, sighing into him. Could they just stay like this forever? Lock themselves away and live in this room for the rest of their lives?

 

* * *

 

Ian woke up moaning, all his blood going straight to his dick —surrounded by warmth and wet; lips stretched around his swelling cock, slipping up and down his length. He arched his back, reaching down to sink his fingers into Mickey’s hair. That familiar texture, silky soft like the lips and tongue that took care of him.

Soft daylight still filtered through the curtain —they hadn’t beed asleep for that long. Waking up from a nap like this was perfect. His leg shook as he pushed his hips up into Mickey’s mouth and hand. Fuck, he was going so slow and steady. Ian got goosebumps, shivering when Mickey swallowed him down deep, then replaced his working mouth with his hand, stroking him firmly.

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian whispered, urgent, feeling his skin heat up, feeling sweat bead up on the back of his neck. 

He finally opened his eyes, looking down at his boyfriend jerking him off with his FUCK hand, looking hot as hell. Smug bastard was chewing on his swollen bottom lip, looking up at him like he knew all of Ian’s secrets. Which… to be fair, he did. Ian let his mouth drop open, breathing hard, propping up on his elbow to watch the brunette stretch his full lips over the head of his cock, working his way down again.

Mickey hummed around him. Ian tensed, loving that vibration, fingers tightening in dark hair, letting Mickey bob his head at his own pace. Ian wasn’t going to last, he knew that.

“Gonna… gonna come,” Ian breathed. 

Mickey looked up at him again, pretty mouth full of cock, like a goddamn wet dream come to life. He hummed a response, and it set Ian off; his hand fell from Mickey’s hair, elbow couldn’t support his weight. Mickey swallowed him down over and over as he came, milking him for all he was worth until Ian was left a trembling fucking mess. A little sweaty, but not bad. But completely boneless again, useless even. 

Was this Mickey’s plan, just to keep Ian boneless and sated for the entire weekend, to take care of him and make him come over and over again?

Please. _Please_ let that be the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever to write, and I apologize. Between when I was writing my big bang, and the fact that this was all smut, and kind of mentally exhausting smut to write (for some reason, idk, it's just a lot of things lmao) it took forever. I mean, it's under 7k words, but it honestly felt like SO MUCH MORE than that. idk idk
> 
> I'm not sure when the next part is coming, but expect more smut lmao WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS WEEKEND, ALRIGHT.


	25. Weekend Pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise, bitch

Ian was worn the fuck out, and Mickey loved it. The redhead was boneless under him, face pressing into the pillow, hands weakly curling into the sheets. He keened softly with every thrust that Mickey gave him, pushing into him slow but deep. Mickey dropped his mouth to the back of Ian’s shoulder, breathing heavy against his skin.

Fucking Ian without anything between them… it was a whole other level of perfect. Mickey rolled his hips, burying himself deep, holding there while his teeth bit down on the back of Ian’s shoulder.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian whispered desperately, one of his hands reaching back, grabbing onto Mickey’s hip, fingernails lightly scratching at his skin. “Fuck —please, please, please…”

Mickey slowly eased out of his boyfriend, smirking at the distressed, confused noise that Ian let out as he looked over his shoulder. “Turn over,” he told him.

His skin was trembling, on fire. Mickey watched Ian slowly turn onto his back, watching the way his muscles moved under his kin, the way his aching, leaking cock laid on his stomach like it did. Mickey’s mouth watered, unable to stop himself from bending down and giving Ian a long, fat lick from the base of his cock, to the tip, making the redhead shudder.

“Fuck,” Ian breathed. 

Mickey smirked, wrapping his lips around the head, tasting him, humming softly around him. Fingers buried into his hair, tugged a little; Mickey slid his lips down further, taking more of Ian into his mouth, until he couldn’t take any more. Ian tasted perfect, like he always did, felt perfect. 

They had fucked all night, last night. Over and over. When they weren’t fucking, they were touching; when they weren’t touching, they were kissing. Mickey shut off his phone and left it in the kitchen, not wanting to get distracted. He’d been waiting for this weekend for what felt like months, been waiting for the moment he could be with Ian like this, both of them taking care of each other, marking each other up inside and out. 

Mickey had marks all over his body, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Ian had more. Mickey had gone a little heavy-handed with marking his boyfriend up. Ian grinned when he looked in the mirror though, touching the little clusters of red blotches from Mickey's savage mouth, turning so he could see his bruised up ass. It was a good look on the redhead, Mickey had to admit. And the sounds that Ian made when Mickey brought his hand down on him… fuck.

“M’gonna come,” Ian’s broken, strained voice gasped. His hips canted up into Mickey’s mouth, legs tensing up. “Gonna come, gonna… fuck, gonna—”

Mickey, not wanting the redhead to finish just yet, slid his lips off of his cock. Ian was a mess under him, fidgeting, back arching, fists balling up on either side of him. Mickey crawled up the redhead’s body, watching as Ian panted heavy, looking right back up at him.

“You’re gonna come?” Mickey reached down for Ian’s legs, pulling them up to wrap around his waist. Then he positioned himself, teasing Ian, just barely pushing into him. Teasing, raspy voice, eyebrows arched, “Huh? You gonna come for me?”

Ian whined, low and long, eyes rolling back. It was fucking beautiful, the way he fell apart like that, the way he got so overwhelmed. Mickey was close too, could feel his body begging for it. Everything was humming, and on fire, everything felt good.

He pushed into his boyfriend again, slow and careful, watching the way Ian stilled and took deep breaths when he did so. Fuck, he was so fucking pretty in the morning. So sensitive and responsive; it drove Mickey crazy. He loved it. And the way Ian took him, the way he tightened around him, the way they fit… he’d never tire of it.

 

* * *

 

Mickey carried the pitcher of coffee over to the table, smirking at his boyfriend. Ian was shifting in his seat, no doubt trying to find a comfortable position to sit with being all bruised up. Mickey got all warm from the thought, the memory of the sting he felt when he brought his hand down against Ian’s skin.

“You okay?” Mickey asked as he sat. He filled up Ian’s cup, then his own.

The redhead nodded, reaching for Mickey’s chair, pulling him closer. “Perfect,” he murmured. He kissed Mickey soft, kissed him again.

“Thought we’d just hang out today,” Mickey said, picking up his fork. Ian had taken it upon himself to make breakfast —pancakes and bacon. He even cut up some fruit. Mickey hadn’t expected that shit at all, thought that his boyfriend would’ve been too worn out to cook, but it was nice. Ian made good breakfast.

“You’re funny,” Ian winked as he chewed his own bite of pancakes. After he swallowed his bite, he continued, “Wanna go for a walk or something though?”

Mickey paused, feeling his cheeks get a little warm. He shook his head, “I was uh… I was thinking that we could stay in. Too fucking cold for a walk anyway. Plus, you’re hobbling around like a fucking grandpa.”

Ian narrowed his eyes a bit, ignoring that last part, “Stay in and do what?”

“Why don’t you just wait and fucking see,” Mickey grinned widely at Ian, loving the way the redhead huffed at him, but failed to suppress his smile. Yesterday Mickey got to beat his boyfriend’s ass as red as his hair. Today —with Ian all sore and bruised up? Mickey was going to make sure he took good care of his guy. 

 

* * *

 

The moan that came out of Ian’s lips was almost pornographic. Mickey grinned as he pressed a kiss to the side of Ian’s head. Admittedly, Ian is a little too long-limbed to be comfortable settled between Mickey’s legs in the bathtub, his back pressed against Mickey’s chest, head tilted back against Mickey’s shoulder. But that’s where he wanted to be, despite his knees breaking the surface of the water like two pale islands, so there was no use in protesting it.

They stayed like that for a while. Mickey had one hand idly running over Ian’s hair, the other lazily clutching a cigarette. It was so fucking quiet, just the sounds of their breathing. No need for anything else, no heaviness in the air. Just them.

Every few minutes Ian would turn his head enough to kiss Mickey’s jaw, his submerged hands running up and down his legs, curling around his calves, gently scratching at his skin. Mickey would sigh softly, would turn his head too to catch Ian’s lips. Soft and sweet.

Maybe it was a bit fairy-tale-ish. This whole weekend. They’ve always had their weekends, but this one felt more special than just an excuse to go crazy on each other without condoms. It felt deeper than filthy sex and bruised up asses. Mickey grinned at the thought; what a dirty fairy tale.

“Water’s getting cool,” Ian whispered, tilting his head back, looking at Mickey upside down.

Mickey nodded, “Wanna get out?”

Ian raised his hands out of the water, fingers splaying out as he looked at them, “Yeah, I’m all wrinkly.”

 

* * *

 

What was supposed to be a _relaxing_ day after the bath quickly derailed shortly after lunch. Ian got a strong second wind, and Mickey reaped all the fucking benefits of that second wind. Reaped them with vigor. The tables had more than turned.

His legs were wobbly, and his ass stung sweetly as he was pulled up from the edge of the bed. Ian’s hands were rough and pulling him somewhere, and Mickey was in a daze after his boyfriend had bent him over the edge of their bed and worked him into a frenzy with his mouth and fingers.

It was all Ian; Mickey gave in, surrendering completely, without question. As soon as his knees hit the floor, he looked up at Ian, wetting his lips. Ian’s jeans hung so low on his hips; the redhead was looking down at him with heat practically bursting from his eyes, pale skin flushed. Ian made a slight gesture to his jeans; Mickey took the queue and ran with it, reaching for the button immediately.

He tugged the jeans down Ian’s hips, exposing gray tented boxer-briefs. Mickey groaned at the sight of his boyfriend, tugging the jeans down further, just to his knees. His tattooed hands reached for Ian’s thighs, his hips, holding him. Mickey kept looking up into Ian’s eyes as he leaned forward, pressing his mouth against the front of Ian’s boxers, against his cloth covered cock. Nuzzled at him while his fingers slowly hooked around the band of his underwear.

Ian was breathing hard while he looked down at him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He sunk his fingers into Mickey’s hair, pulling him closer, pressing him harder against him. Mickey moaned, tilting his head while he opened his mouth around Ian’s covered shaft, panting against the fabric. It was right _there_ , between his lips, hard and sheathed in gray cotton. His mouth watered as he mouthed at Ian, fingers still holding tightly around the band of elastic.

“You want that in your mouth,” Ian whispered. “Can feel how fucking wet your mouth is for it, Mick. Drooling for my cock, huh?”

Mickey’s eyes fluttered closed as he moaned again, letting his head be pulled back, mouth hanging open and ready. Yes, _yes_ he wanted Ian in his mouth. Hot and hard. He wanted him down his throat. He wanted messy and loud. Yes.

“Take it out,” Ian kept his voice low.

Mickey wet his lips as he pulled Ian’s underwear down more, letting that cock spring free, hanging heavy between his boyfriend’s legs. God, he had such a good fucking cock. Maybe he should’ve waited for Ian, but Mickey couldn’t. He wrapped his hand around the shaft, sliding up so he could circle his thumb over the leaking head. Ian let out a low noise. Mickey took him into his mouth. 

He took him deep, swallowing him down as he looked up at Ian. He was whispering something, but Mickey couldn’t hear. Hissing whispers under his breath, brows drawn tightly together. That look, all fucked out, it was everything. Mickey hummed around him. Ian let out a harsh breath, grabbing at his hair, tugging at it. Mickey hummed again.

Slowly, Ian pulled from his mouth; Mickey left it open, looking up at him, waiting patiently. He wasn’t a patient man by nature, but this? He could do this. “Put your hands behind your back,” Ian told him, all breathy and thick.

He did, crossing and holding onto his forearms behind his back, still kept his mouth open, waiting, aching. He was so hard, ass stinging as he sat on his heels, but he didn’t move an inch. Mickey watched as Ian undressed completely, tossing his jeans to the side. He couldn’t stop looking at him. His muscles moving under his skin. His freckles everywhere. The cut of his hips. Mickey swallowed hard, licked his lips, then dropped his mouth opened again, still waiting. Wanting.

Then Ian was standing in front of him again, fisting his own cock, stroking it slow right in front of Mickey’s face. Mickey panted heavy, trying not to whine for it, trying to keep himself in check, but the way Ian’s hand wrapped around himself like that was fucking perfect. He dug his fingers into his forearms behind his back. Shut his mouth to swallow hard again; dropped it back open.

“Wish you could see yourself like this,” Ian said. He pressed forward just a little, just enough to brush the tip of his cock across Mickey’s bottom lip. That time Mickey couldn’t stop the whine, couldn’t stop his tongue from darting out and tasting his boyfriend, licking at his precome.

“This yours?” Ian asked him with a smirk. Mickey paused, mouth unable to catch up with his brain. _Yes, yes, yes_. “This your cock?”

He could only nod, eyes fluttering shut when Ian did it again, brushing his bottom lip with the tip of his cock. Again, Mickey pushed his tongue against him, tasting him, full lips closing around the tip, kissing him. Ian shuddered, free hand burying in Mickey’s hair, pulling tightly.

“Take what’s yours then,” Ian breathed.

Mickey’s whole body seemed to flutter as he drew Ian further into his mouth. Loved that taste. Flesh and heat and _IanIanIan_. He drew him further in, as far as he could, moving his lips, his head. Taking in, pulling off. Over and over. It was silent; Mickey felt Ian’s eyes on him watching him. The air was so heavy, so thick with tension. Mickey looked up at Ian when he took him deep, hummed around him like before.

“Jesus,” Ian broke the silence. “Gonna make me come.”

Mickey moaned, sucking harder. Faster. Tighter. He wanted to hear that desperate, gasping noise as Ian came, wanted to taste him, feel him tremble. His spit is building up in his mouth, leaking out around Ian, making a fucking mess. He keeps his eyes on his boyfriend, watching how Ian is watching him. Seeing those green eyes go all narrowed and intense.

Then Ian pulls from his mouth, fist tight in the top of Mickey’s hair. His other hand’s fingers are shoving their way into Mickey’s wet, messy mouth. Two fingers, fucking him there, feeling around. It’s making a bigger mess of spit and precome. Mickey lets it happen, moans around the digits, feeling it dribble down his chin. Sticky and gross. Perfect.

Mickey thinks of how Ian looks like that, with a messy mouth. If possible, it makes him even harder. He’s moaning and whining around Ian’s fingers, eyes closing, feeding off getting Ian off and his whole rolodex of memories with the other man. He doesn’t question why it feels so good, tastes so good. It doesn’t fucking matter. Nothing else matters except right here and now. Tasting Ian, however he can. Making him feel good. Hearing his heavy breath, his moans, the filthy wet noise Ian’s fingers make while they fuck his mouth. 

“Tell me this is mine,” Ian’s voice is soft when he says it, fingers slipping from Mickey’s mouth. He rubs his soaked fingers over Mickey’s lips, his chin. Mickey opens his eyes in time to see Ian wrap his hand around himself again, stroking himself tightly, using Mickey's spit for more slick. 

Mickey takes a couple deep breaths, momentarily mesmerized by Ian fully jerking himself off at this point. He wets his lips, nodding his head, “S’yours.” His voice is raspy and slurred. “Fucking yours.”

“Yeah,” Ian pants.

God, he wants it, he wants it so bad. It’s building up in his gut. Quiet violence of need. Mickey pants heavy, keeping his arms locked behind his back, watching Ian’s hand glide up and down his cock. His grip is so tight in the top of his hair, keeping him still. Ian’s making these fucking noises, these grunts and groans, his breathing is nearly out of control. It’s so hot, watching him like this —on his knees, already feeling all the way fucked out. Mickey wants to grab his own cock so bad, wants to get himself off while he watches Ian get himself off.

“Look so fucking good,” Mickey tells Ian. “Want you to come for me.”

And just like that, Ian is pushing back into his mouth, fucking him while his fingers curl tighter in the top of his hair. Mickey moans loudly around his boyfriend, relaxing his throat, letting Ian take him however he wants to take him. Ian took him hard, took him fast. Mickey’s dull fingernails bit into his forearms; his eyes stung a little, watering in the corners. His knees were starting to ache under him, and the wet noise that came from Ian hitting the back of his throat was filthy as fuck. 

And then Ian pulled from Mickey’s mouth roughly, free hand going back to quickly jerking himself off. Mickey let his mouth hang open, gasping for air, skin on fire, waiting for it. Wanting it. It was so fucking primal, this need, this want. Marked from the inside out; Mickey was Ian’s, and Ian was Mickey’s. Every inch.

“Come on,” Mickey panted. He whined. He _needed_. 

“Yeah?” Ian questioned through a heavy breath. “Sure?”

Mickey nodded, a slight challenge coming through his need, “Come for me. Take what’s yours,” he mirrored Ian’s words from before.

Ian’s hand dropped from Mickey’s hair, letting him go. He moaned short bursts of noises, his leg shaking a little under him. He was right there. Right fucking there. Mickey stayed patient, mouth open for his boyfriend, looking up into his eyes. He couldn’t stop panting —excited, ready, _wanting_ — his hot breath puffing hotly against Ian’s slicked up, swollen dick. Right there. Just a couple more strokes, and Mickey knew that—

“Fuck!” Ian gasped.

Hot bursts. His tongue. Around his mouth. The top of his cheek. His chin. Mickey groaned low with him as Ian came; as he marked him. Mickey closed his eyes, keeping his mouth dropped open. Ian pushed inside one last time, then another. Mickey gently sucked at him, swallowing Ian’s taste, his come left on his tongue. When Ian eased out, Mickey licked and sucked hard on his own lips, tasting more of him. Like a sated, happy cat. He hummed, content. Marked. _Ian’s_. 

Ian was breathing so hard when he dropped to his knees in front of Mickey. Flushed and pink in the cheeks. Mickey couldn’t focus, so fucking hard, so blissed the fuck out. There was something about having Ian do that to him, having him mark his face like that… it felt so fucking good. Primal; kind of dark, kind of fucked up — _beautifully_ fucked up. He felt high, or drunk, or both. Fuck.

“Oh my god,” Ian panted. “That was fucking… _jesus_ , Mick that was fucking hot —look at you. _Fuck_.”

Then Ian’s hand was curling around the back of his neck, mouth pressing a hard kiss against his. Ian didn’t care about the mess, licking into his mouth. Mickey trembled and sank against his boyfriend, letting his arms behind him go, grabbing onto Ian’s arms, steadyinghimself. Ian kissed him so deep, pulling him closer, hands holding Mickey’s face.

“Fuck, that was hot,” Ian repeated against his mouth, hand curling around Mickey’s aching cock. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck, gonna make you come so hard.”

Mickey moaned, pushing his tongue into Ian’s mouth one last time before he broke apart to breathe. He gently took Ian’s hand away. “S’okay,” he panted. He wouldn’t last very long right now, and when he got his, he wanted Ian buried inside of him. “I’ll wait.”

 

* * *

 

It was quiet; nighttime. They’d be leaving to go back home, to go back to their normal lives in the morning. The television’s volume turned down pretty low, an old episode of MASH that Ian wanted to watch for some reason. Ian seemed to be falling asleep; both of them laid out on the couch, Ian between Mickey’s legs, head resting back on his stomach. Mickey looked down at his boyfriend and grinned, brushing his fingers through his red hair. His tattooed fingers made little patterns down Ian’s temples, around the curve of his jaw, slipping down to his chest, then back to his hair. Ian hummed every once in a while, his lips pursing then relaxing.

Green eyes fluttered open, looking right up at him, catching him; upside down like when they were in the bath. Mickey felt his cheeks go a little warm as he ran the pad of his thumb over Ian’s bottom lip, “You wanna go to bed?”

Ian shook his head, “No.”

Mickey hummed, trailing his fingers down the column of Ian’s throat, then back up to his jaw, “You okay?”

Ian grinned up at him, turning his body so he was now on his stomach, arms draped over Mickey’s hips, caging him in. He nuzzled at the hem of Mickey’s undershirt, pushing it up just a little with the tip of his nose. His breath was hot against Mickey’s skin, making him shiver.

Ian kissed at Mickey’s skin, kissed him slow, soft. Right above the waist of his sweatpants, pressing his lips into his skin, breathing against him. Fuck.

“You know what that does to me; when you touch me like that,” Ian murmured against him. More kisses, slow, soft, his tongue pushing against Mickey’s skin. “Feels so good.”

Mickey carded his fingers through red hair, raking his short fingernails against Ian’s scalp. Rhythmically, slow, gentle. Then down the back of his neck, needing to touch him, needing that anchor while Ian loved on him, making his skin break out in goosebumps. “Like that?” Mickey barely got the question out.

Ian just nodded, breathing heavier against Mickey’s skin, tightening his arms on either side of him. “Mick, I’m hungry.”

Mickey shivered, bringing his arms up, running his hands over his hair as he watched Ian mouth at his stomach, felt him sucking hard to mark him. His body tightened, going hard under his boyfriend. Ian was just so fucking sexy, and the way he was kissing at Mickey, the way he was breathing against him, the way his hips were rocking down against the couch, the way he keened softly —just a little, just barely. It was all breathy and desperate, like he was quickly spiraling into a state of want, of _need_ … fuck.

He could barely think, but he managed to breath a soft laugh, “Hungry, huh?”

Ian’s fingers curled around the band of Mickeys’ sweatpants, slowly tugging them down. Just enough. Not all the way. “Yeah,” he murmured, looking up at Mickey. He shifted so he could get a good grip around Mickey, just holding him. His breath was hot when he spoke, bleeding across the head of Mickey’s swelling cock.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed; his eyes fluttered when Ian dragged his lower lip across the tip, teasing him. 

“Still owe you,” Ian said, dragging his lip against him again. His body moved against the couch again, seeking out some more friction; the air got thick, filling Mickey’s throat, warming his belly. Ian looked up at him with those eyes, somehow both vulnerable and totally aware of the upper hand he held as he told him, “M’starving, baby.”

“Fuck,” Mickey whispered again. Ian did it again, this time barely touching him with his tongue. And Mickey couldn’t fight it if he wanted to. His whole body gave up on him, muscles relaxing, falling more into the couch under him. An involuntary groan escaped his lips, turning into a hiss when Ian slipped his lips around him. Inch by inch. Slowly drawing him into his mouth. So hot and wet, so fucking perfect.

He went hot, white hot, watching Ian watch him, lips pulled around his cock. Real slow, up and down, drawing him in deep, almost pulling off. _Real_ fucking slow. Ian breathed hard through his nose, moaned around him, eyes locked on Mickey’s.

“Fucking perfect,” Mickey whispered, hands reaching down for his boyfriend, touching his hair, his face, thumb running along his chin. He'd never get over how beautiful Ian was.

Ian didn’t go faster, didn’t pull tighter, just kept at his slow, lazy pace. Mickey shivered, arms falling at his sides, head tilting back, looking up at the ceiling. His hips didn’t even cant upwards; he made himself stay still, made himself take it. Let Ian take care of him like this, let Ian go as slow as he wanted. Fuck, it was perfect. It was hell, and so perfect at the same time, and felt _so_ good.

He felt Ian’s mouth slide off of him, felt his hand wrap around him instead, still slow, sliding around him, taking his time. Mickey looked at his boyfriend again, at his hand working him, at his reddened lips, his blown out eyes.

“Am I doing good?” Ian asked him, soft, careful like his hand.

Mickey groaned, smiling down at his boyfriend. He touched the side of Ian’s face, touched his hair, “Yeah —yeah, you’re doing good.”

Ian’s eyes lit up; he grinned all playful and mock-innocence, “Yeah?”

His boyfriend wanted to play, wanted to talk. Mickey couldn’t deny him; he grinned, sitting up a little, his hand wrapping around to the back of Ian’s head, carding through his hair. “Open your mouth,” he whispered.

Ian did, his mouth dropping open instantly, holding Mickey tightly in his hand, drawing his cock back into his mouth. Mickey shuddered, watching his boyfriend. “Just like that,” he spoke softly. “S’my guy.”

Ian whined around his cock; Mickey groaned from the feeling, fingers tightening in Ian’s hair, pulling his head down, making him take him deeper, knowing how much Ian could take. “Eyes on me,” Mickey told him. “That’s it, that’s my guy. Good. So good for me. Love that mouth.”

Ian moaned again, all muffled and tortured sounding, vibrating around Mickey’s cock. Fuck, it was good. He wasn’t going to last much longer, breathing more little praises for his boyfriend, telling him to keep his eyes open. Ian responded beautifully, flushed cheeks and little whines. He had a desperation in his eyes that was addictive, a need.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey whispered. The back of his neck was getting a little damp, his head a little fuzzy. Fuck, he wasn’t going to last long at all. “Jesus, you’re fucking perfect.”

Ian responded with a deep moan, eyes fluttering a little. He pulled his mouth off of Mickey, slid off the couch, dragging Mickey to sit up, sit back against the cushions so he could kneel on the floor between his legs. Ian tugged Mickey’s sweatpants all the way off, tossing them to the side, and Mickey was hit with the strongest pang of deja vu.

Ian took Mickey in his hand, licking a fat strip up the underside of his cock, keeping eye contact. Mickey shivered, forgetting everything else. Nothing else —anywhere, _ever—_ mattered. Just them right there. 

“You love me on my knees like this,” Ian said. His voice was a little strained, a little needy as he stroked Mickey slow. “Remember the first time you brought me here? You were sitting right here, I was on the floor for you like this.”

Mickey dumbly nodded, “Yeah —yeah. _Fuck_ … I remember.”

Another long, fat lick. Mickey felt his insides twist up into knots. Felt his lungs shudder with every breath he took. God, he was going to come.

“I came so fucking hard,” Ian told him. “You fucked my mouth so good.”

Mickey groaned at the memory. Ian on his knees, taking him —messy and deep, hand shoved down his pants, tugging at himself while Mickey fucked his mouth. God, that had been so fucking hot. Ian had been moaning loudly around him, spit dripping down his chin, eyes blown out and glazed over, hair a mess from Mickey’s hands.

“You want that now?” Mickey panted, hypnotized by Ian’s hand sliding up and down his length, his tongue pressing against the head of his cock, teasing him. “You — _Jesus_ — you want me to fuck your mouth like that?”

Ian grinned at him like a wolf, shaking his head, “No, not this time.”

Mickey just nodded over and over, hips rocking up into his boyfriend’s grip. “Fuck, that’s so good, you’re so fucking good. What do you … whatever you want —whatever you want…”

Ian hummed, drawing Mickey into his mouth again. Hot and wet again, tightly pulling around him, sucking harder than before, swallowing him down deep. Mickey went blank for a second, a pained grunt falling from his lips as his hands went for Ian’s hair again, fisting it tightly.

“ _Fuckfuckfuck_ ,” Mickey hissed. He tried to buck his hips up, but Ian grabbed them, pinning them down, keeping him still. “Ian, please… fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Ian pulled off of him slow, letting his cock fall heavy between his legs. Mickey shivered, watching as Ian stood, then bend over and kissed him hard. Mickey immediately let him in, tasting himself on his boyfriend, groaning into the kiss.

“Stay here,” Ian whispered against his mouth. “I’ll be right back.”

“Huh?” Mickey whimpered, brows creasing deeply. “Where—”

Ian reached down, wrapping his hand around Mickey’s aching cock, pumping him a couple times, making Mickey shiver again. “Keep this hard for me. _Don’t_ come.”

Mickey just nodded, replacing Ian’s hand with his own, “Just… hurry up, I wanna come—”

Ian cut him off with a soft laugh, shaking his head. He bent down again to kiss Mickey again, slipping his tongue between his lips, his teeth —invading and demanding. “Fucking cute when you think you get to come when _you_ want.”

All of Mickey’s insides flipped, fluttered, warmed up. His mouth watered, watching Ian walk out of the living room. 

He didn’t know how long Ian was gone. Could have been minutes, or even hours. Mickey took deep breaths, his hand moving painfully slow over this cock, keeping himself hard for his boyfriend. Up and down, up and down. His body was humming, wanting so badly to come, needing that release. Twice Mickey had to grip himself tightly at the base of his cock, twice having to talk himself down from the edge.

What was Ian doing? What was he getting? Mickey’s mind was running in so many directions, scenarios piling on top of each other. Was he going to tie Mickey up? Fuck, tie him up and work him over until he was begging for it? Mickey groaned, closing his eyes, gripping the base of his cock again, taking even deeper, slower breaths.

When he opened his eyes, Ian was there, kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with his green eyes and crooked smile. Mickey wet his lips; Ian arched a brow. He held up the bottle of good lube. Mickey groaned again.

“Can I play?” Ian smirked at him.

The redhead barely got the last word out before Mickey blurted out, “Yes.”

Ian set the lube aside carefully; he nodded towards Mickey’s cock, “Don’t stop.”

“Okay,” Mickey whispered, doing as he was told. Still slow, careful. Not too tight, not too fast, or else he was sure he’d finish before they even started.

“Want to take care of you,” Ian continued, looking up at Mickey. 

Mickey swallowed hard, “Yeah?”

Ian arched a brow at him again, sliding his hands up Mickey’s thighs, gently pressing his fingers into his flesh. It made Mickey shiver, made his mouth water, his dick twitch. “Yeah,” Ian said. “Wanna make you feel good like you made me feel good. Do you want that?”

Mickey squeezed at the base of his dick again, hand stilling, body tensing up. “Yes, _fuck_.”

Ian grabbed Mickey’s hips, roughly tugging him towards the edge of the couch. Mickey let go of his cock as a rush of air forced out of his lungs from being manhandled; Ian tugged at him again, pulling him off the couch, into his lap. Chest to chest, face to face. The redhead’s fingers caught under Mickey’s shirt, pulling it off, throwing it to the side as well. Mickey was breathing so hard, and felt how hard Ian was under him. Felt his hands grab at Mickey’s ass, finger trailing down to graze over his dry hole.

“Wanna fuck you,” Ian whispered. His breath was hot against Mickey’s mouth. “Make those pretty eyes all wide and glassy, needing to come.”

“ _Jesus,_ Ian,” Mickey shivered.

Ian dropped a soft kiss to Mickey’s lips. So fucking soft, but so intense. Mickey couldn’t move, fingers curling around Ian’s shoulders, letting his boyfriend manipulate his mouth, letting him invade his space with his tongue. Soft. Slow. His hands were everywhere, sliding and gripping. 

“Wanna see what it takes to make Mickey Milkovich truly _fucking_ beg for it,” Ian breathed. “Wanna see you out of your mind, needing to come —needing me to fill you up.”

Mickey’s eyes rolled back; a shiver shooting up his spine as Ian’s fingers brushed over his hole again, teasing him. He knows he said something, but had no idea what it was; letting his mouth run on it’s own accord. Whatever Mickey said had Ian’s mouth on his throat though, had him sucking and tonguing at his skin.

He let Ian move him back onto the very edge of the couch, sinking back heavily against the cushions, letting his knees bend, his feet planted flat —open and exposed, waiting. Kind of an awkward position like that, but like _hell_ Mickey was going to complain.

And then Ian’s mouth. It was everywhere. Mickey grabbed behind his knees, taking deep breaths as Ian kissed, and licked, and sucked. Ian’s mouth was hot against him, slick tongue prodding and dragging. Big hands pushing under his ass, spreading him open while he pushed his legs closer to his chest. Mickey couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He gripped behind his knees harder, not needing to hold himself up, but he did it anyway. Fuck, he _loved_ this. He loved this so fucking much. Ian was so good, and he made sure to tell him that —over and over.

Ian groaned against him; Mickey felt it everywhere, felt tingling in his toes, crawling up his legs. He knew he was whining something fierce, knew that filthy words were spewing out of his mouth, urging Ian on, getting him to go faster, press harder. Ian gave him that. Mickey reached with one hand, grabbing a fistful of red hair, pulling at it until Ian moaned loud against him, eyes peeking up to Mickey.

“Fucking love that ass, don’t you,” he slurred, the corner of his mouth pulling up all on it’s own. Ian growled as he pushed at Mickey hard with his tongue, pressing inside of him; Mickey’s breath got caught in his throat, eyes clenching tightly. “ _Fuuuuuck_ , fuck fuck fuck,” he hissed.

When Ian moved up, kissing and sucking, tonguing at his perineum, Mickey couldn’t hold back the soft, desperate whines. When Ian moved up further, dragging his hot tongue and breath against Mickey’s balls, sliding one of his hands to wrap around the head of his cock, softly working it while he continued, Mickey’s hand fell from Ian’s hair, the other hand he had gripping behind his knee fell also. His body gave up, gave in, letting Ian take over completely. He was almost there.

Slick, sticky, wet. Ian’s mouth, his tongue, traveled back down until it slid easily against Mickey’s hole again. Mickey was boneless, listening to the sounds of Ian’s groaning; as much as Mickey loved this, Ian loved it too, enjoyed pulling him apart like this, enjoyed tasting him like a starving man.

But then Ian took his mouth away, and Mickey whined —low and desperate, needing more, “Ian — _please_ ,” he breathed. Could barely get it out. He felt blurry, could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Mm,” Ian hummed. He kissed the back of Mickey’s thighs, bit at him. His teeth were sharp, and Mickey gasped from the bite, pushing his head back against the couch cushions, his grip behind his knees slipping.

In a matter of seconds, Ian grabbed him, pulling him from the couch, flipping him to lay on his stomach over the edge of the seat. Mickey breathed hard, knees digging into the rug under him, face pressed against the seat of the cushion. Ian’s mouth was on him again, kissing and licking and sucking. Ian knew how to get him to melt under his touch.

“Feels s’good,” Mickey’s voice was so low, so strained when he spoke. Ian’s hands were grabbing at his bruised ass, spreading him open, digging into the tender flesh. It hurt so _fucking_ good.

And then fingers and lube came next. Slow but direct, opening him up. Mickey felt the stretch, took deep breaths as Ian sunk one finger inside of him, worked him open, then eventually sunk a second into him. 

Without warning, a single stinging hit to Mickey’s ass. He flinched from the surprise, then moaned from the burn. “Don’t make me chase you,” Ian said, pressing a hand to the middle of Mickey’s back. There was a soft edge to his voice that made Mickey’s mouth water; made his dick twitch. Another hit; Mickey didn’t move that time, taking the blow, shuddering hard from it as his skin flooded with heat. _Jesus_.

Ian took his time opening him up, slow sliding fingers with the good lube, gripping at his ass with the other hand. He pressed against Mickey’s prostate, and Mickey was sure that he was going to die, hands gripping the cushion hard; bottom lip wedged between his teeth. His whole body hummed with every movement of Ian’s fingers, skin shuddered when a third digit worked it’s way inside of him.

“Ass looks so good,” Ian told him as he dripped more lube where they were connected. Slick and wet. Easy. “How you doing, Mick?”

Ian just got done asking the question, but Mickey already forgot it. His mind was swimming, dick so fucking hard and leaking against the couch. His knees ached against the floor, but the way Ian pumped his fingers in and out of him made it all worth it. Those fingers he loved so fucking much worked him until he was nothing but a babbling mess.

“Mick,” Ian prompted.

Oh, right. How was he doing —Mickey swallowed hard before he answered, “M’good.”

Ian hummed low, slipping his fingers out, rubbing the ring of nerves. God, that was good. Mickey grunted, hips canting against the couch, looking for friction. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up before he had no other choice but to come. He was right there, right at that edge.

“Can I… fuck…” Mickey whimpered; he needed a hand around his cock, needed that extra push, he was almost right _there_. “I gotta… I…”

Ian pushed his fingers back into Mickey. Touched him where it really counted; made Mickey’s eyes roll back. There it was. He wasn’t going to last, not like this. Fuck. Mickey let out a harsh noise as he grabbed onto the cushion tighter, until his knuckles ached.

“Gonna come,” he breathed. Over and over he warned Ian. “Gonna —fuck, gonna come…”

But Ian kept at it, fingers gliding and massaging against his prostate, free hand gripping Mickey’s ass hard, keeping him open. “You think?” he asked.

Mickey nodded. He was hot all over —so fucking hot. Sweating. Gasping for his next breath. Tremors up and down his body, his hips rocked back and forth, fucking himself on his boyfriends fingers, “Gon’… gonna come,” he slurred out. Everything went static, went blurry. He couldn’t stop it.

“Nah, you’re not gonna come yet,” Ian whispered; he sounded unconvinced.

Mickey nodded fast, sucking down more gasping breaths, “Yeah I _fucking_ am,” he gritted out. It was right there; his leg was trembling under him, throat going dry from breathing so hard.

Ian chuckled, fingers easing out of Mickey slow, “No, not yet.”

“Fuck!” Mickey grunted —or whined, or gasped, or a combination of all of those. It was almost inhuman. He was so fucking close, so close he could feel it dancing at the edge, could feel his body brushing right up against it. “Fucking —you’re a fucking…”

All of a sudden, he felt a sharp bite on his already tender ass, “I’m a fucking _what_?”

He tried to level out his breathing, taking slow breaths, trying to float back down to the ground, “You’re a fucking dick,” Mickey snapped, looking back at the redhead.

Ian gave him a surprised, amused grin, eyebrow arching. His lubed up fingers were slow and careful as they slid down his perineum, tugging at his balls; Mickey choked out a moan. The hair on the back of his neck stood tall, his skin shivering for more of Ian’s touch; shivering to come. 

“Get up.”

“Huh?” Mickey breathed, eyes darting wildly around as he tried to put puzzle pieces together. What? Get up? Wasn’t Ian going to fuck him? 

A light smack to Mickey’s ass. Ian repeated himself before he stood, “Get up.”

Mickey was still in a bit of a daze as Ian helped him to stand. The redhead lead him somewhere; Mickey followed without question, hard and aching for it, willing to go wherever Ian was leading if that meant that when they got to wherever they were going, he’d have Ian buried inside of him. He couldn’t think. His body was still humming, still reared up and ready.

Ian pushed him against the master bedroom’s bathroom door, kissing him hard while taking his hands into his own, pulling them up over his head. Mickey moaned into the kiss, feeling the fabric of Ian’s soft sweatpants pressing against his naked body.

Mickey was _almost_ too distracted by the kiss to notice that Ian was securing his hands into straps above his head. He took a deep breath as he broke their kiss off, looking above him. Ian was slipping his hands into his over-the-door cuffs. They’d talked about this before coming to the cabin this weekend. A thrill shot up Mickey’s belly; mouth watered.

“Good?” Ian whispered, drawing Mickey back to center.

This was _more_ than okay. He moaned and nodded his head hard, pushing his hips against Ian, chasing friction; whatever came out of his mouth wasn’t a word, but it tried to be one. _Yes_ this was okay. _Yes_ this was fucking perfect.

“You worn out?,” Ian’s mouth was back on his, breathing the words against him, as his hands skimmed down his sides, grabbing his hips hard. “Or are you just gone?”

Again, Mickey moaned, hips pressing forward, legs restless under him, wishing so badly he could touch Ian. After Ian had fucking _feasted_ on him and pulled him apart on the couch, he was a fucking mess. So close to coming, slicked up and ready to be filled. He felt the best kind of filthy and needy, every hesitation and bit of decorum flying out the window. He needed Ian, needed him _so_ fucking bad.

Ian bit almost savagely at his bottom lip, and it made Mickey feel like he was melting. He sagged against the door, the straps around his wrists biting into his skin a little bit. “Please,” he keened, feeling Ian’s hands slide up his sides, then back down to his sore ass, squeezing until Mickey jerked and gasped from the pain. Fuck, that was good.

“Should I just leave you here for a bit?” Ian asked wen he broke their kiss off, looking at Mickey with this dark mischief behind his eyes. “Almost want to make you watch me jerk off… come all over your cock, and make you wait here for me to comeback and fuck you.”

In his head, Mickey was cursing viciously. In his head, he was going off on a rampage, because the very thought of Ian leaving him here like this, this worked up, this ready to fucking go, would probably _actually_ kill him, he was sure of it. But the only thing that came out of his mouth was a breathy, almost weak, “No, no, please don’t.” He sounded even more desperate and his skin shuddered, feeling like he needed to shed it; he was restless and achingly hard, ass still stinging hot.

His mouth watered when he saw Ian push his sweatpants down, stepping out of them. God, he was fucking beautiful, and all his. Mickey didn’t mean to let the moan slip as he stared at his boyfriend. He watched, with heavy eyes, as Ian spit into his own hand, then wrapped it around himself, up and down, up and down, going slow, staring at Mickey’s body. Fuck.

“Jesus,” Mickey whispered. His mouth went dry; he swallowed hard, fists clenching. He needed it so bad, needed Ian inside him, needed to come. It felt like he needed so many things, and his head was spinning with it.

“You look so fucking good like that, baby,” Ian grunted. "Beautiful."

Fuck it. Mickey wet his lips, “Please,” he whispered.

Ian arched a brow at him, his breathing becoming weighted, “Please what?”

Mickey arched against the door, eyes focused on Ian’s hand working himself. He needed it so bad, he could barely breathe. His body ached for it, ached to be filled, to be fucked against this door, to be completely at Ian’s mercy, hands stretched above his head. No one fucked him like Ian. No one.

“Mick,” Ian said, stepping forward, pressing against him. Mickey felt Ian’s knuckles moving up and down his cock as he jerked himself off while they were pressed together. Ian panted against his lips, barely kissing him, “Please what?”

Shit, it was happening. Mickey’s eyes stung as his body almost went into desperate-starved-overwhelmed mode. Ian licked into his mouth, his free hand grabbing at Mickey’s thigh, hitching it up on his hip. Mickey gasped, arching again, trying to get more friction. Then Ian pulled Mickey’s cock into his hand too, stroking them together.

“Please fuck me,” Mickey whispered into Ian’s mouth. “Ian, please —fuck, I can’t.. don’t wanna come like this, please.”

The hand that was gripping Mickey’s thigh slid back to his ass, grabbing him harshly there. Ian kissed Mickey harder, hand stilledaround both of their cocks. Mickey keened. Ian sunk two fingers inside of him again. An awkward angle, and Mickey had to support himself on one leg, and the straps were starting to hurt around his wrists, but fuck all of that. 

“Don’t wanna come like this?” Ian asked, brushing against Mickey’s prostate.

God, he was being such a fucking tease. Mickey nodded, eyes clenching tight, “Don’t wanna fucking come from your —from your hand. Please, _fuck_ , please, Ian.”

“Look at me,” Ian breathed. He rubbed harshly at Mickey’s prostate again, hand squeezing the base of his cock —only Mickey’s cock now, keeping him from coming. Good thing too, because he was positive if Ian hadn’t’ve, it would’ve all been over.

Mickey cried out as he opened his eyes wide, rushing out with barely any breath, “ _Please_. _Please_ fuck me, I’ll fucking do anything. Fucking killing me, want it so bad, _please_ -”

Then, relief. Immense fucking relief. Ian grabbed at Mickey, sliding his hands down his thighs, pulling his legs up to rest on his hips. The straps cut bluntly into Mickey’s wrists as he was moved; he felt Ian hard against him, teasing and hot. Ian maneuvered his arms, moving them to hook under Mickey’s knees; the restraints pulled tighter around Mickey’s wrists as he dropped a little; he keened, feeling Ian start to press inside of him.

“This how you wanna come?”

He nodded, mouthing _yes_. He could barely focus; so much was happening at once, and so much felt so fucking good. Mickey’s back got shoved against the bathroom door, his wrists starting to ache, starting to tingle a little bit, but he couldn’t give a shit about it because the way Ian was fucking up into him, holding him up against the door, grunting heavily with every push… Mickey was beyond the realm of _gone_. 

“Take it so fucking good,” Ian was saying; his words were labored and broken as he drove harder into him. “Fucking love this, don’t you? Tied up like this, giving up all your control… _fuck_ you look good.”

Mickey babbled and babbled as Ian hit his prostate over and over, burying into him hard every time, “Gonna come,” he slurred. He let his arms fully relax, letting Ian support him, letting the restraints pull tight around his wrists.

His legs were starting to dully ache, being pulled up like this, and he knew for a fact that he’d have bruises around his wrists, but Mickey didn’t care. He was so fucking close, if he let himself just let go, he could come untouched and he’d come _hard_ , and it would be so good. His eyes stung a little while he listened to the noises coming out of his mouth, not having any control over them. And Ian… fuck, Ian grunted harshly with every thrust. Giving it to him so good, like a fucking champ, holding him up like this. Fuck.

“Look at me,” Ian panted. Mickey did. “You can come, but you gotta look at me.”

Mickey nodded, doing what he was told, “Gonna… gonna come.”

“Good,” Ian pushed into him hard; the sound of skin hitting skin was filling up their bedroom, loud and filthy. Mickey focused on that sound, letting it drive him home. “After… I’m gonna — _fuck_ — put you on the bed so I can finish.”

His body felt like it was going to burst into a million pieces then burned up. Wave after wave of need hit him. After he was done, Ian was going to move him to the bed so he could finish. Mark him from the inside too. The thought alone, Ian filling him up, all hot and desperate, gong deep as he could, pushed Mickey the rest of the way.

“ _Ohfuckohfuckohfuck_ ,” Mickey chanted as he shattered, his stinging eyes watering, clenching tight, his whole body tensing up around his boyfriend. 

He spilled between them, hips bucking as well as they could as he sucked in air. That release of tension, that relief sinking straight to his bones. Mickey felt his legs gently drop, but he was boneless, holding onto Ian’s shoulders once his wrists were released from the ties. He was weak. So fucking weak, but Ian was there to hold him up, to move him where he needed to go. He felt so empty without Ian buried inside of him; and knowing that Ian hadn’t finished just made him restless —made him feel like they’d been interrupted.

“You good?” Ian panted, his hands running everywhere, down his back, over his ass, gripping him while he pressed against Mickey’s hip. Mickey reached for Ian’s cock, stroking it a few times, letting him know that he was good to still go.

He was sticky and sweaty, satisfied yet restless. He sat on the edge of the bed and laid back, letting Ian take over again. The redhead grabbed his thighs and pushed his legs up, folding him in half while he buried himself —quick, and deep, making Mickey’s eyes roll back and a shiver course through his body.

He was so sensitive, and every muscle in his body was both useless and aching, but god fucking damn if this wasn’t perfect. Ian leg go of his legs as he pressed over him, taking him so fucking deep, so slow. Big hands burying in Mickey’s hair, mouth pressed against his ear. Ian whispered over and over between his broken moans. Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian’s shoulders, holding on as tightly as his body would allow.

“Come for me,” Mickey whispered to Ian, kissing his temple. He wrapped his legs around Ian’s waist, hooking his ankles together. “Come on, baby, come for me.”

Ian sobbed out a moan, tensing up over Mickey. His hips stuttered, body shook as he filled Mickey up, pressing deep inside him. God, it was perfect. Felt so right, so natural. Mickey smiled, kissing Ian’s temple again as the redhead slowed to a stop, holding deep inside of him while he caught his breath.

Mickey grabbed the sides of Ian’s face, wiping the sweat off his brow as he looked at him. All flushed and fucked out, gasping for air. Mickey pulled him down, kissing him soft, “So good, you’re so fucking good,” he told him.

Ian let out a long breath, nodding, eyes fluttering, “Love you.”

Mickey smirked, wincing only slightly as Ian eased from him. God, they were a mess. Sticky and sweaty. Come fucking everywhere. Jesus. “Love you too,” he said.

Ian rolled to the side of Mickey, where they both stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes, coming down from their fucked-out high, sticky fingers meeting between them, tangling up together, just needing contact.

He doesn’t know why, but Mickey breathed a laugh, looking over at Ian, “I think we both need a couple days,” he said.

Ian looked back over at him, nodding, “Ya think?”

Mickey laughed louder; Ian joined him. “What a fucking weekend.”

“You wanna shower?” Ian asked.

Mickey nodded, “I just need a minute to find my fucking bones again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with the ending, but like... it had to be updated, and I had *other* plans for the 2nd part of this, and this chapter gave me absolute hell, so... lmao 
> 
> Happy Holidays <3


	26. This is not what it looks like.

This is not an update, so I'm sorry for the fakeout.

  
There's been a lot of questions as to when I will be updating this fic. Unfortunately the simple answer to that right now is "I don't know".

As for why: a combination of I hit this fic too hard, too fast in the beginning, and I think I got a little burned out on the way, mainly on these last few chapters... paired with working on another project.

Y'all know I'm a slow as fuck writer to begin with, but these two factors have brought this fic to a temporary halt.

I know what you're thinking.

Shit, she's gonna abandon this, isn't she.

I'm not. I feel like I have a tendency to make a lot of promises when it comes to fics and I don't always follow through, so I know it's asking a lot of believe me when I say I'm not going to abandon this.

But I wanted to let everyone at once know now as to why I haven't been updating.

As always, thank you so much for all the love you've shown this fic. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it & how good it makes me feel. I'm whipping up a new project that I'm really excited about & this time I'm not posting until it's 99% done, as to not run into this problem again. It's a doozy of an angst train, so get ready. I'm not sure when that will be posted.

Much love, Britt.


End file.
